Nature of the Beast
by Lomonaaeren
Summary: HPDM slash. Draco knows how to the world is supposed to go: he is a dominant Veela, with a submissive mate. It's rather a surprise to find out that his mate is Harry Potter. It's rather more of one to find out that Harry, having been raised by Muggles, does not know how the world is supposed to go, and has no interest in being a submissive mate.
1. Medallions and Mates

**Title: **Nature of the Beast

**Disclaimer: **J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.

**Pairing: **Harry/Draco (eventual), Ron/Hermione, Lucius/Narcissa

**Warnings: **Creature fic (Draco is a Veela), angst, some violence

**Rating: **R

**Summary: **Draco Malfoy knows how the world is supposed to go; he is a dominant Veela, with a submissive mate. It's rather a surprise to find out that his mate is Harry Potter. It's much more of one to find out that Harry, having been raised by Muggles, does _not _know how the world is supposed to go.

**Author's Notes: **This story is going to be probably somewhere between twenty-five and thirty chapters.

**Nature of the Beast**

_Chapter One—Medallions and Mates_

Draco slowly turned around and looked down at the center of his chest, where the heavy silver medallion that was the first gift to his mate hung. He knew it looked handsome—his mother, watching him with intensely critical eyes, would have told him already if it didn't—but he wanted to make sure one more time.

Yes. The medallion was made of solid silver except for the faceted crystal in the center, which was shaped like an eye. Gentle, wavering rays, carved grooves, led from the crystal out to the sides of the medallion. Finally, a fine net of cloth of gold studded with more tiny crystals floated over the top of the medallion, connected to the gold chain that bound it around Draco's neck and protecting the center from any shattering fall.

"It looks magnificent," said Narcissa, with a long, slow nod. "_You _look magnificent. I don't know how Potter could resist."

"Well, some token resistance is traditional," Draco allowed, and then smiled and spread his wings. They had been a nuisance at first, manifesting on the thirty-first of July, his mate's eighteenth birthday, along with the knowledge of who his mate was, and not going away ever since. But it was September now, and Draco had got used to them. Besides, under ordinary circumstances they would have been here a year earlier, when they both came of age.

Draco was…rather glad that there had been one way in which his mating would defy tradition.

His wings were three times longer than his body, long, narrow, and pointed like a gull's, but glinting with soft silvery light from the inside. Draco touched the largest feather on the edge of his left one, and shivered. They were sensitive to his touch. He could barely imagine what would happen when his mate caressed them.

"But such beauty is not," his mother replied, and that silenced some of his doubts.

Draco smiled more broadly and looked down again. Yes, the medallion was ready. Yes, the courting costume, a set of white robes with a long drape of silver cloth in front and a broad gap in the upper back for his wings, was ready. There was really nothing lacking but a sufficiently noble and dramatic moment for Draco to claim his mate.

Draco had thought and thought about that, turning possible moments over in his mind, and rejecting most of them. Harry Potter had lived through more high drama than ninety-nine percent of the wizards his age. It wouldn't be easy to impress him.

Of course, once Draco really staked his claim, Harry would sink to his knees, trembling with desire and abjection, but Draco hadn't done that yet.

Finally, the news had made his decision for him. The Ministry was giving Harry his Order of Merlin, First Class, for "incredible services to the wizarding world" in the Atrium this morning. Draco had had two days to get ready, and now it was an hour away from eleven, when the ceremony was set to begin.

"Yes, magnificent," his mother reassured him again.

"I hope so." Draco turned to face the large mirror he had installed in the wall of this sitting room two days earlier. "Because I have someone magnificent to claim."

* * *

Harry scratched at the collar of his dress robes. The Ministry official who was in charge of him until the Order of Merlin was officially presented immediately began to fuss around him, checking, Harry thought, both the hang of his robes and the proportion of gleaming silver thread in his hems and cuffs against some regulation rule she had in her head.

"I'm sorry if they're uncomfortable," she said. "I _told _you to go in for a fitting more than once."

Harry managed to shrug and settle the heavy, forest-green robes more or less properly, so that they only dragged at his shoulders and arms instead of his whole body. "It's okay, Lantha."

"Don't say okay, and _don't _call me Lantha. You remember what you're supposed to say when they present the Order to you?"

Harry grinned at her instead of answering, which made her sigh and stalk over to the entrance to the little anteroom off the Atrium where Harry had been told to wait. So he just grinned at her back instead. Amalantha Highdream was the Ministry official who was apparently in charge of everyone's robes and positioning on important occasions, and Harry thought it was driving her crazy to have just one person to shepherd.

For all that, she wasn't so bad. She did care about whether he was comfortable, and her scolding reminded Harry a lot of Hermione. She was one of the few pure-bloods he'd met who seemed convinced that _anyone _could be pure and righteous and beautiful. They just needed her help, most of the time.

"All right, it's starting," said Amalantha abruptly, in a hushed, reverent voice that made Harry shift his weight again. She turned around and smiled at him, but there was still a trace of anxiety on her face, which was long and thin enough to remind Harry of Aunt Petunia's. Luckily, her eyes, big and blue and kind, killed a lot of the resemblance. "You're sure that you remember what you're supposed to say?"

"Do you want me to recite it?" Harry asked. "You know, just to make sure."

"No time, here they _are_," said Amalantha, and towed him out of the anteroom, leaving Harry to chuckle to himself.

Once they were in the Atrium, of course, Amalantha let him go and turned to stare at Harry expectantly. Harry knew why. He had trained and let other people coach him, but he was the one who had to make the people here believe that he wanted the Order of Merlin, First Class.

And he sort of did. It was just that it would make other people happy, and open some doors, but it wouldn't bring the dead back. It wouldn't end the threat of those few Death Eaters who were still free. It wouldn't settle the boiling of the wizarding world back into peace.

It was something that _could _do some good, though. So Harry arranged his mouth in a smile, and walked forwards.

The Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, stood at the very front of the line. Harry could tell he wanted to smile madly himself, from the way his mouth twitched, but he managed to hold a distant expression. Not many other people did. Head Auror Robards was very nearly smug, since most people knew that Harry wanted to become an Auror someday, and Amalantha stood behind Robards with her hands clasped and her mouth moving in what looked like silent prayers, and Hermione and Ron were grinning and waving from the line of "lesser" important people. They were going to receive the Order of Merlin, Second Class, when Harry was done with his.

Harry thought they deserved the First Class, but there were some things that people wouldn't listen to him on no matter how loud his voice was in the wizarding world in general.

Further down the Atrium were the ordinary spectators who for some reason had their hearts set on seeing Harry get the Order of Merlin. Amalantha had said that the ceremonies were usually small and private, but Harry saw at least a hundred wizards there, and probably more.

Harry grimaced. He understood the reporters, of course, but he didn't understand the people who would wait all day for just a small glimpse of him getting a pretty ordinary medal pinned to his chest. People were weird.

But even that, he was learning to deal with. He really wanted peace. He knew that he couldn't get it alone. Other people would have to help. So he was doing some of what they wanted, and speaking out when reporters interviewed him, and all the rest of the political game. If it got some attention paid to causes he was passionate about, then he could pay that price.

He turned to Kingsley, who shook his hand. Kingsley's own prepared speech was first, and all Harry would have to do was interject the thanks and the acknowledgements in the right places. He prepared to let his mind drift a bit.

Then there was a disturbance from the one of the fireplaces, and Harry whirled around, his hand falling to the wand at his belt. Had a Death Eater just Flooed in? They'd got threats to disrupt the ceremony, of course. Fenrir Greyback liked to threaten people.

A bunch of Aurors immediately swooped in around Harry, meaning he couldn't see. He tried to crane his neck to see over Robards's shoulder, but Robards shook his head and backed towards Harry.

"It's better if you're safe," he called back.

Harry frowned, unimpressed. Yes, he could understand that, but he probably had more battle experience than a lot of the Aurors did. He could at least help. Or, failing that, he needed to see what was going on so that he would have a chance to move towards the right exit or stand his ground and fight, instead of just moving around blindly.

This time, it seemed that the person who had come through the Floo was confusing the Aurors. Harry heard murmured questions, most of which seemed to center on the question, "What's _he _doing here?"

_Not Fenrir Greyback, then. _But it left a lot of other questions as to who it could be, from someone recently pardoned to Rufus Scrimgeour back from the dead. Harry saw a gap between Robards and the tall Auror next to him, and wriggled forwards, finally managing to stick his head out and look at the Floo.

He felt his mouth fall open, and not because he didn't recognize the figure who was walking slowly down the middle of the Atrium.

It was someone recently pardoned—Draco Malfoy, whose trial had been less than a month ago. Harry had pleaded for mercy because Malfoy hadn't betrayed him to the Snatchers, and while he was a Death Eater, he was so incompetent that he wasn't that much of a threat to anyone. The Wizengamot had listened to him and granted Malfoy his freedom, with the provision that if he was found to have committed another crime, he would go immediately to Azkaban.

Malfoy had seemed pretty normal then, if quiet. And he had stared at Harry intently all the way through his trial. Harry had put it down to Malfoy resenting the life-debts he owed Harry, and the fact that now he owed his freedom to Harry as well, and shrugged it off.

Now, he wondered if Malfoy had begun the process of going mental during the trial. It would explain the clothes he was wearing now, and the slow parade he was making down the middle of the Atrium, one hand clasped over the huge amulet around his throat. Harry noticed that some other wizards were drawing back and murmuring. Maybe it was a catching madness, he thought, and the amulet was the sign of it. Or the completely white clothes were. Or the huge eagle wings sticking out of his shoulders.

Harry blinked. He had to admit this was entertaining, and not exactly threatening, or the Aurors would have struck before now.

He was amused until exactly the moment when Malfoy halted in front of him and turned slowly towards him. Until then, he had been gazing straight ahead, his eyes fixed on some distant horizon, but having them locked on him, Harry bristled. Malfoy looked at him like he was _property _or something.

"Harry Potter," Malfoy whispered. "I have come to claim you as my submissive mate." His hands rose to the golden chain around his throat that linked to the amulet and unhooked it via some clasp Harry couldn't see in the back. Then he moved towards Harry, his wings spread, holding out the amulet.

That settled it: Malfoy was mental.

Harry didn't wait until Malfoy actually dropped the amulet over his head, because unlike some people, he didn't need any prompting to defend himself against crazy bastards. He whipped his wand out and held it towards the amulet, which halted, swinging, in midair, while Malfoy stared at him like he'd been Stupefied.

"Put that thing down," Harry said coldly. "I think someone's Confounded you. What's this nonsense about me being your mate?"

Malfoy blinked, and for the first time, his wings, which had been held straight and trembling out to the sides, fell down and just dangled around him like silly robes. He looked back and forth. Harry didn't know if he was looking for allies that should have accompanied him, and which would maybe drag Harry forwards and force him to kneel. He didn't wait to find out.

"_Finite Incantatem_," he said, as clearly and loudly as he could. Let everyone see that he hadn't hurt Malfoy, even though he had come up and acted strange. Times were different now that Harry didn't have to constantly look over his shoulder for Voldemort. He could assume that even Malfoy was an innocent victim of a prank.

But nothing happened other than a shimmer or two of magic fading from the medallion. Malfoy looked perfectly furious a second later, though. Harry relaxed. Maybe the Confundus Charm had been subtle, and wouldn't break visibly.

"I _made _that for you," said Malfoy, nodding at the medallion. "The way a Veela claiming a submissive mate should."

"I still have no idea what you're on about," Harry told him, but he could feel a faint sinking sensation in his chest. It seemed that he had leaped straight into the middle of another strange situation where life was going to turn on him because apparently he tasted _that _good to bad luck. "Veela, submissive mates. You're not a Veela and none of them I ever saw ran around with wings and medallions like this."

"Harry, I know something."

That was Hermione, of course, pressing up next to him. Harry opened his mouth to tell her that he was glad someone knew _something_, but a second voice interrupted Hermione a moment later.

"You don't. Not enough to tell Harry what to do now."

Ron walked up and stood next to Harry. He had his arms wrapped around his chest and he was hunched over as if he was cold. Harry stared at him; Hermione gaped at him. But Ron paid no attention to either of them, instead meeting Malfoy's eyes as though this was a secret shared between them.

"Growing his wings like that means he's the dominant Veela, the one who's supposed to be able to fly and protect his vulnerable, earthbound mate." Ron grimaced a little, but still didn't look away from Malfoy. "And he's the one who makes the gifts and begins the courtship process. If he's dominant, the person he's courting must be submissive. That's the way it is. Gender doesn't matter. Blood doesn't matter."

He turned to Harry and shook his head. "Sorry, mate. But that's the way it is. You're submissive."

"Really?" Harry asked, his gut beginning to churn and his voice coming out a lot colder than he had ever spoken to his best friend. "Even though I don't feel _any _urge to crawl on my belly or kiss his feet?"

"I would not require that of you," said Malfoy, his wings fluttering now as though he was trying to pick something up with the tips. "Not immediately."

Ron finally seemed to wake up. Color flooded his cheeks, and he blinked. "Really, mate? Nothing?"

"Nothing," Harry said, and gave a short laugh when Ron stared at him. "When have I ever submitted to _anything _tamely?"

"Not ever," said Ron, and frowned. "I didn't think—" He glanced at Malfoy. "But he's a dominant Veela. Only the dominants ever have wings like that. And that means that you _have _to be the submissive. He wouldn't be mistaken about who his mate is, either. Veela always know."

Harry shrugged, uncaring. "Maybe they can be mistaken sometimes. The only thing I know is that I'm not attracted to him, and I'm not submissive, and you're the only one who's allowed to call me mate."

"I would never have come to you if I was unsure," Malfoy broke in, his cheeks a furious pink. "You _are _my mate, Potter. And what Weasley said is true." He lifted his wings, and the light reflected from them the way it would from a silver Shield Charm. Harry blinked. "You should be—you should want my protection. You should know the rightness of becoming mine the instant you look into my eyes."

Harry lifted his head and stared into Malfoy's eyes. It went on and on, until Malfoy expelled his breath in a ragged pant. Harry realized he'd been holding it.

"No," said Harry at last. "Sorry. No urges to give up my will or my wand or my independence or anything else. Find someone else, Malfoy." He turned away, shaking his head, wondering what the papers would print about _this _tomorrow. Yet another thing he had never heard of, like Horcruxes, that wanted to doom him. Except, this time, there was no prophecy that said he had to be Malfoy's mate.

He got two steps away when the shadow of wings fell across him. He didn't have time to duck before Malfoy, with a furious screech, swooped down on him.


	2. Fates and Fears

Thank you for all the reviews!

_Chapter Two—Fates and Fears_

Draco came down on Potter with his mind blazing and his hands curving in front of him like talons. How _dare _he deny Draco, how _dare _he hold back and be different just the way that he was always doing and humiliate Draco in public—

But Potter had rolled as Draco landed on him, and Draco didn't simply bear him to the floor the way he'd planned. Instead, he found Potter's wand jammed into his neck, and Draco gasped out and tried to catch a breath. His wings beat frantically, holding most of his weight up in the air. He pulled away from the wand at last.

That gave him another problem, though. Without most of his weight on Potter, Potter sprang to his feet again, and retreated through a fairly wide space. His mouth was open in what looked like a snarl. Draco's skin crawled as he stared into Potter's teeth. Potter looked as if he would lunge and tear through Draco's feathers instead of caressing them. Draco found himself landing and shrinking back, pulling his wings in close to his body.

Then he felt what he was doing, and anger ripped away his fear.

_Dominant Veela do not yield._

He spread his wings out again, and said in a voice that felt strangled with his rage, "Do you realize that we're in public, Potter? That you could earn a violent reputation for attacking someone who has the right to claim you?"

"I don't know about Veela having the right," said Potter, and his eyes and his snarl that made him look so uncouth didn't disappear. "I never heard of it. Do _you _realize that you just attacked me in public, and that if I pressed charges, your feathered little arse would be in Azkaban this time tomorrow?"

Draco stared back at him in silence. He really had no idea what to say. Mates didn't—mates weren't—

"You don't need to insult me like that," he finally whispered. The insults _hurt_, sinking into his body as though Potter had jabbed shards of glass into his abdomen. Mates didn't insult their Veela, that was the most important thing. Maybe they did fight and resist sometimes, although Draco had never heard of such a thing. But he and Potter had a history, and that would make some things different.

_Perhaps. Why did I have to be the exception?_

The insults, though, made Draco want to tear his wings off. He caught his breath and said, "Please don't insult me like that," in what he thought was a more normal tone of voice.

"Why not?" Potter glared at him. He was standing there with his elbow cocked and his wand still aimed at Draco. His friends stood behind him, gaping. Everyone else in the Atrium watched with breathless interest. Draco's cheeks burned to think that this would be all over the papers tomorrow. Of course, he had _wanted _it to be when he thought he would be claiming Potter, but… "You insulted me. You said that I should crawl at your feet, and you expected me to just accept this strange medallion being put over my head. You should have known how I would react to that, when I get poisoned gifts all the time."

The feathers on the edges of Draco's wings stood straight up and solidified; Draco felt their weight grow. He screeched this time, a low, rising sound that tore out of his chest. Potter stared at him some more.

"Who did that to you?" Draco whispered. He knew, somewhere at the forefront of his mind, that he should be more concerned about the fact of Potter's resistance and the fact of their eagerly watching audience, but right now, _right at this moment, _all he could think was that Potter had been hurt by other people who had no right to do that to Draco's chosen.

"Lots of people," said Potter slowly. "I can't give you all their names. The Aurors handled some of the cases. Why do you care, anyway?"

"It's my part to _protect _you." Draco held up his hands, partially because he wanted to rejoice in feeling that particular weight for the first time, and partially to show Potter the claws that his fingernails had curved into. "As your dominant, I have to be the one who stands up in front of dangers and says that they can't come any further to harm you. That's what I want to do. What I was born for."

He felt as if he could balance atop the flow of fury through him now, the way he could dance atop a lava flow with his wings. How _dare _someone turn against the man who had made this peace possible, who was Draco's? He could find them and tear them apart like paper. He could part steel walls and wards like curtains of grass to get to them. His wings and his pulse and his breath all trembled in response to the same rhythm.

"Malfoy. You don't even _know _me."

"I know that you're my mate. That's all I need to know."

Potter stared back at him wordlessly, and then his friend Granger stepped forwards and interfered. Draco showed her his teeth and the edges of his wings, but she didn't seem impressed.

"You're holding up the ceremony," she said. "Let's let the Ministry do what needs to be done, and then maybe we can go somewhere and talk about this." The way she looked at Draco said that _she _intended to be the one doing the talking.

Draco bowed sarcastically to her and stepped back. His dream of claiming Potter in public had collapsed in folly. He would let the Ministry ceremony, far emptier than the ceremony of placing his gift around his mate's neck, proceed.

But he wouldn't retreat into the background. He remained standing next to Potter as the Minister, shaking his head, gave a prepared little speech, and Potter gave a prepared little speech, and the Minister pinned the medal on him, and they both flashed smiles for the clicking cameras.

Draco could hear the buzz of rapid conversation from near the back of the room, but no one had so far stepped forwards and accosted him. Why would they? Most people here were either pure-bloods or half-bloods who knew wizarding traditions. They knew what a great honor being chosen by a Veela was. They knew the natural way to react.

_Hell, even _Weasley _knew._

It was a sad day when a Malfoy thought he would rather have a Weasley for a mate than the one destiny had placed him with.

But then Draco looked at Potter's face again, shining with determined pleasure as he stepped backwards and let his friends come forwards to receive their own Orders of Merlin, and his mouth filled with a slippery, sour taste. His hands grew heavy with the desire to press and bend and hold.

No, Potter was his mate, that much was clear. And Draco wouldn't give him up, and he didn't _want _anyone else.

The only mystery was why Potter didn't feel the same way.

* * *

Harry stalked into the anteroom where he and Amalantha had stood before the ceremony, feeling as though his blood was humming through his veins. The Order of Merlin banging back and forth on his chest comforted him. He turned around and folded his arms and stared at Malfoy, who was having trouble fitting through the door until he remembered to lower his ridiculous wings.

Harry curled his lip a little. Putting aside _everything _else, Ginny and wanting to be with someone he loved and being busy right now and Malfoy being a bloke and being someone he used to hate, Harry wasn't sure that he wanted a "mate" who didn't have the common sense to think about the problems his wings could cause indoors.

Malfoy stood near the door, barely shifting aside so Ron and Hermione could come in, or Kingsley follow them. His eyes had decided to be wide and unblinking again, and they were focused on Harry's face. Harry sighed and turned to Ron.

"You said that I should have been submissive and Malfoy _should _be dominant," he said. "As if that's the way it always happens. Explain."

Ron sighed noisily and folded his arms. "Because that's the way it's always _been_, mate. It's like girls—women," he hastily corrected himself, at a significant elbow-twitch from Hermione, "being able to have children. That's the way it is. Something natural. You have to have a man and a woman in a relationship to get the woman pregnant and have a child, right? It's the same thing with Veela. You have to have a submissive and a dominant."

"This had better not end with talk of me being pregnant," Harry muttered.

"Er," said Ron, and turned red enough that Harry seriously considered drawing his wand and blasting Malfoy to smithereens. But Ron saved Malfoy's life by blurting out, "No, there's no pregnancy, but you do have to have a submissive and a dominant to create the egg."

"You make it sound so ungraceful," said Malfoy.

"You owe him a life-debt," Harry told him. "Treat him nicer."

"What?"

Harry shook his head. He could hardly expect Malfoy to keep up with his own private thoughts. "Look, Malfoy, I have no idea what went wrong here, but obviously something did, right? Because you should have a submissive mate, and that's not me." He had to admit, his skin crawled with the sympathy he felt for the other poor bastard, whoever it was, but presumably that person would welcome being Malfoy's toy. "You can't—reproduce without the right person, and that matters."

"It's more than that," said Malfoy, those wings of his beginning to beat again, the feathers trembling in a way that blurred them. "I need you to give me someone to defend, someone to love, someone to—"

"But it went wrong this time," Harry interrupted brutally. "I don't know why, but it did."

"I think I know why."

Harry turned to Hermione with a sense of relief, ignoring how Malfoy sneered at her. The disgraceful way that Malfoy treated his best friends was number two on the long list of reasons that he and Harry were not going to be together, but at least Harry would only have to put up with it for a few more minutes. "I knew you'd have the answer. Why?"

Hermione blushed, but looked at Ron. "I didn't actually hear about this before, and Fleur doesn't require the same thing of Bill. But it happens with full-blooded Veela, not quarter-Veela, right, Ron?" Ron nodded, and Hermione continued, her voice gaining confidence. "So people who were raised in wizarding society accept it the way it is. Natural. The same way that so many people in Muggle societies in the past believed that all women were naturally submissive and—oh, it depended on the period of history, but they could believe that they were naturally good mothers, or naturally evil, or naturally sexual." Hermione was blushing a bit more, but she forged right ahead. "Women who weren't like that were unnatural. At least, other people thought they were, and even some women who wanted different things were taught that that was wrong, and so they thought _they _were wrong."

"No offense, Hermione, but I'm not a woman," Harry had to point out. This sounded far too close to Malfoy's plan to make him into something he wasn't, and he didn't want Malfoy to get more ideas.

Hermione shook her head impatiently at him. "But don't you see? Someone who had been raised in a different culture would have thought that was odd, the way those people in the past thought about women. And it's the same way here. Maybe someone who was raised in the wizarding world would think it was completely natural to be a Veela's submissive mate, and would feel they had to be submissive the instant they realized the Veela was dominant. But you were raised in the _Muggle _world."

Harry cocked his head. Yes, that would explain some things. It didn't happen all the time, and when it did he was mostly able to put it down to his own ignorance, but now that he thought about it, he could remember other times when he'd done something that made people like Ron or Neville gape at him. It was easy to laugh off when it didn't concern his bloody freedom, like this did.

He turned around and gave Malfoy a stern look. "Well, there you have it, then. You can't have what you want from me because I wasn't raised that way. Go away and bother someone else."

Malfoy's face was utterly stricken. He reached out one hand, as though he was going to take Harry's, and then dropped it and hunched away from him. "But that's not the way it is," he whispered. "This is something inborn. Natural. Otherwise, I wouldn't feel dominant."

Harry decided to ignore that. It didn't make sense, and it only meant that Malfoy couldn't have been listening closely to Hermione, or he would know already that he "felt" dominant because he thought he should. "Well, you'd be happier with someone who could feel submissive the way you want, right? Not with me."

* * *

Draco wondered how in the world this had all gone so wrong, and what kind of twisted thinking growing up in the Muggle world taught you, if this was the way that they reacted to all obstacles.

He shook his head and bore in. "My instincts are fine. They wouldn't have told me that you were my mate if you _weren't. _Instincts are natural. Inborn. They can't be fooled by things like what sort of family raised you. You would still be my mate if my family hadn't raised me or if we had never been rivals or if you had never been the Boy-Who-Lived."

Potter snorted, his eyes hard and unyielding. That was so wrong for the eyes of a submissive that Draco had to look away. "How can you know that? I would have been so different without Voldemort trying to kill me, if that never happened, if my parents never died—" This time, he was the one who cut himself off, glancing away and shrugging. "How did you learn that I was your mate? Who told you that? Can't you just go back and ask them to find you a different mate, one who would actually be glad to be with you?"

"You're not _listening_," Draco snapped. And that was another unnatural thing, that a submissive wouldn't hang on any word his dominant said. It was one reason that Draco had been so glad when he found out he was dominant, so that he could have an audience. "It wasn't anyone outside my head. It was my instincts. The day you turned eighteen, this formless anxiety that had been drifting around inside my mind sharpened and clarified. I woke up whispering your name. That was how I knew."

Potter didn't look impressed. If anything, his lip curled. "And you knew my birthday, right?"

Draco stared at him. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"What would have happened if you didn't?" Potter folded his arms. "Would you still have woken up on your mate's birthday? On my birthday, assuming that we entertain the mad position that I _am _your mate for a second? Would you have known the day? I'm wondering if that stupid celebration that made front page of the _Prophet _that day influenced you at all, or knowing that was the date I was born. If you wanted me as a mate, maybe your instincts just picked that day, and it only _felt _natural to you."

"_That's not the way it works._" Draco gestured violently between them, although only a few hours ago, he would have been unable to imagine doing that to his mate. But this was going all wrong, tumbling to the floor in wrecked pieces. "I don't want you as a mate! Look how horribly it's going already! My instincts just chose you because you were the right one!"

"It is horrible," said Potter. "So find someone else."

"I can't." Draco gripped his hair and turned away. His wings were vibrating around him now, a betrayal of his emotions that he wanted to stop. But maybe his mate would feel sorrier for him if he saw that. "You're it, Potter. If you refuse…I don't know exactly what will happen. Because _no one refuses._"

"This time, it's happening. I think Hermione's right." Draco heard Potter shift his weight, probably leaning back towards his friends and away from Draco just to show that he could. "I wish you luck in finding a mate who was raised in the wizarding world, but that's not me."

Draco shook his head. His wings beat faster and faster, fast enough now that his feathers were starting to hurt. He raised one hand, and found it on his face, digging into the skin of his cheeks, digging for his eyes.

"Mr. Malfoy!" That was Shacklebolt. He muttered a spell, and a second later, Draco's hands were chained in front of him, bound by heavy cuffs that meant he couldn't reach his face.

Draco bowed his head and moaned. His wings kept fanning, and the Minister muttered another spell. That bound his wings closely to his side, but that didn't make Draco feel any better. His stomach was churning with nausea now.

"There _is _a legend," he heard Weasley shout, sounding alarmed. Over _him_. Draco knew he should feel amused, but that was only a faint urge among the much stronger ones sweeping him. "That if a dominant Veela can't get to his mate or can't find them or can't protect them, they try to destroy themselves. Or combust from the inside. Or something."

_There is that legend, _Draco thought distantly, numbly. He hadn't connected it to the probable consequences of a mate refusing his dominant, which had never happened.

"Harry, mate, _do something!_"

Draco felt blackness creeping in around the corners of his vision. His gut's churning got worse. Draco hadn't eaten anything this morning, as was traditional with this rite of courtship; the first meal he would eat with his mate, and feed to him, would also be Draco's first meal of the day. Otherwise, he would surely have vomited by now.

"What am I supposed to do?" he heard Potter yell. "I can't just feel like his slave! He would probably know I was lying."

_I would, _Draco agreed silently. _But it might feel good anyway._

Then he slumped to the floor, and then there was a noise like ringing glass, and pain in his wings, and then he passed out.


	3. Conflicts and Compromises

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_Chapter Three—Conflicts and Compromises_

Harry cursed as he watched Malfoy fall unconscious. There went his last hopes that Malfoy had been mistaken or playing a prank on him or even just taking advantage of the Veela "instincts" that he said the change gave him to get one over on Harry. Harry didn't think Malfoy would collapse like this and embarrass himself if there was any choice.

"Harry, do something!" That was Ron.

"What can I do?" Harry snapped, whirling on him. The Order of Merlin banged uncomfortably on his chest. "You said that he needs to know I'm going to submit to him! I can act, maybe, but I won't fool him, and he'll die without the proper emotions from me, won't he?"

"I don't know," said Ron, and hunched, tense, miserable, his eyes darting from Harry to Malfoy. "This hasn't happened before. Can't you just—go over and touch him, or something?"

Harry didn't think it would work, but he didn't want Malfoy to die, either. He went over and crouched down beside Malfoy, taking his shoulder. It was utterly unresponsive, until the edge of Harry's hand brushed Malfoy's wing.

Malfoy promptly breathed, which meant he hadn't been until then, which made Harry shudder with a terror he could barely name. He didn't like Malfoy, but God, what it would do to the peace process Harry was trying to start if Malfoy died. The peace Harry was trying to build back up between pure-bloods and Muggleborns would probably crumble utterly. There would be distrust and paranoia and accusations and gossip that could maybe lead someday to another war.

Harry never wanted to fight another war as long as he lived. And that included a war with people like Malfoy who were annoying but not really _evil_. He scowled down at Malfoy. Why couldn't he have found another mate and been happy, somewhere away from Harry?

Malfoy's wing trembled and shuddered, curling around the edge of Harry's palm in a way that made it seem oddly like a hand. Then he rolled over and stared up at Harry. His face was lost and soft. "Hello?" he whispered, the sound ending in a sharp whistle that made Harry flinch back.

"I don't want you to die," Harry told him. "But I can't be your slave."

Malfoy closed his eyes. He was breathing, though, and continued doing that, one wingtip wrapped around Harry's hand in that weird way. He rolled his head to the side and licked lips that were blue. Harry frowned. He didn't understand the kind of things Malfoy was feeling. Beating wings, blue lips like he was cold, and he'd tried to hurt himself, too. What kind of weird Veela thing _was _this? Why did the Veela think they were better off having mates when it would cause them to hurt themselves like this?

"Water?" Malfoy whispered faintly.

Harry held up a hand when Kingsley started to move forwards. He understood the impulse, but he was there now, and maybe this would help bring Malfoy back to life. He flicked his wand out and conjured a glass; conjuring charms were ones he'd studied a lot when he was stuck in a room waiting endlessly for awards or trials after the war. Then he cast _Aguamenti _and filled the glass with water.

By the time he held the glass to Malfoy's lips, Malfoy was staring at him as if he was thirsty for Harry instead of the water. Harry held back the sharp sigh he wanted to give, and instead made sure that Malfoy swallowed. While he was swallowing water, he couldn't talk.

But Malfoy turned his head to the side soon enough, and Harry sighed aloud this time and lowered the glass to the floor, watching carefully. Malfoy hadn't let go of Harry's hand with his prehensile wingtip yet. But he hadn't said anything, either. Harry didn't know what was supposed to happen next.

What _actually _happened next, whether or not it was supposed to, was Malfoy tightening his grip on Harry's fingers until Harry thought he would cut the circulation off, and moaning softly, "I can't believe that my mate had to help me instead of the other way around."

"Let's pretend," said Harry, in a sharp, bright voice, ignoring the way that Kingsley and Hermione and Ron were all trying to say something at once, "that we're two normal human beings, not a screechy Veela and the helpless slave you think I should be. You'd think we could both defend each other sometimes, right?"

Malfoy glared at him. "I am not _screechy_."

"But you'd think that," Harry said. He and Hermione were the only ones with sense here, he thought. Well, and maybe Kingsley, too, but Harry didn't know what side he was on yet. "It wouldn't matter who gave the unconscious person on the floor water. He could hardly be expected to do it for himself."

"A normal dominant Veela wouldn't ever end up on the floor when his mate needed his help and protection." Malfoy lifted one hand to shield his eyes from Harry, as if this was a bad dream he needed to wake up from. Harry sympathized _exactly, _and that helped a little when he spoke next. He could make his voice softer.

"I'm not talking about ending up on the floor when his mate needed help." Maybe if he said it enough, the word "mate" would stop tasting strange in his mouth. "I'm talking about just ending up on the floor. It must happen sometimes when the dominant, or whatever, a person, ends up there and the other person helps him. And that's not a debt or whatever. It's just what a decent person would do. Let's pretend that we're both decent people—"

"It's obvious that you don't think _I am_."

"No, someone who expects me to crawl on the floor and lick his shoes isn't," said Harry, dropping the pretense. This wasn't fucking working. "_Listen_. I can't pretend to be your good little slave, and I can't sit here holding your wing for the rest of your bloody life. Will you just—"

"Mate."

Malfoy showed his teeth in a silent snarl worse than a lot of words he could have said. If he was strong enough, Harry thought he would have launched himself at Ron. Harry angled his body in between Malfoy and Ron as it was, and said, as simply as he could, "What is it, Ron?"

"I think you ought to talk in private. There are too many other people here, too many noises. That makes a dominant jumpy. Maybe he would calm down if you were in a small dark room without other people."

_It would probably remind him of a broom cupboard off the Astronomy Tower and he'd jump on me immediately, _Harry thought, but he retained enough sense, just, not to say it. He nodded. "All right. But we have to come to some sort of compromise. I can't do everything he wants." He started to stand up.

Malfoy uttered an embarrassing whining noise and reached out after Harry with his arms and his wings. Harry's stomach wriggled with an equally embarrassing mixture of nausea and pity. Malfoy would kick himself if he could see the way he was acting right now. The real Malfoy would, anyway.

"Fine," said Harry, and knelt down, and took a wing again. "Then can the rest of you lot clear out? And I'll dim the lights and try to talk rationally to him." He was pessimistic about it doing any kind of good. Whatever dominant Veela acted like normally, Malfoy acted like he didn't want any compromises.

Hermione said, "Should we? It feels like leaving a woman alone with someone who's trying to rape her."

Ron hushed Hermione, and herded her out of the room. Kingsley was the last to leave, his eyes tracking back and forth thoughtfully from Malfoy to Harry.

"You realize that this would make the kind of work you want to do extremely difficult, Harry," he finally murmured.

"God, I bloody _know_," said Harry. He was considering all the many ways that Malfoy could warp and mess up his life, and that was the first one that had come to mind.

Kingsley smiled slightly, nodded, and walked out. Harry drew his wand with his free hand and cast the charms that put up some silencing spells and some dimming spells on the room—but not so many that someone couldn't come running and save him if Malfoy started trying to claw his face off.

"All right," he said, turning back to Malfoy. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to cause you to commit suicide. But you ought to know that I'm not going to crawl on the floor, or stop caring for myself, or stop defending myself or fighting. And I'm _busy_. I want to make sure that another war doesn't happen, at least not in my lifetime. And no war with the Muggles. Can you fit in around all that, and we'll try to see if we can forge a reasonable bond that can help you? That's what I'm willing to compromise on. And not compromise on," he added, deciding that he needed to, because Malfoy was staring at him with his mouth open.

* * *

Draco had never known there was a chance that his mate _could _be like this. Nature should have forbidden it. If a non-submissive submissive mate had to exist, nature should have assigned him to a Veela who would like that sort of thing.

But Draco needed to know where he stood. He needed someone who would admit that Draco could do things right, after the last few years of doing everything wrong. Draco knew that about himself. When his wings had grown, if not earlier, he had come to a crystalline understanding of himself, his own mind, his thoughts, what he required, what he wanted, and what he could live without.

This wasn't in any of those plans.

_Well, I suppose I at least know where I stand with Potter, _Draco thought, as he saw the way that those green eyes glared impartially at him. He was an obstacle to what Potter wanted. Potter was going to accommodate him as little as possible, as easily as possible, and just go on.

Draco hunched. What he _needed _was to be the center of his mate's life.

But if he also needed Harry Potter, maybe—he admitted the idea reluctantly—he also needed the work that would accompany Potter becoming a suitable mate. It was a longer courtship than he had thought he would need to undertake, but the lore contained some records of such courtships. That didn't make it impossible.

"All right," he said. "I don't—submissive mates usually don't work outside the home, but I'm willing to let you do it."

He thought that was generous of him. He didn't appreciate the wrinkled nose and curled lip Potter was wearing.

"So they spend time doing nothing but—what?" Potter shook his head. "Looking after the house and the children?"

"Of course not," said Draco, a little shocked. "I have house-elves for that. You wouldn't need to do any of those chores." Maybe some mates of poorer Veela had to worry about things like that, but Potter never would.

"I have particular reasons for disliking housework," Potter mumbled, but it sounded as if he was talking to himself. He looked searchingly at Draco. "So what does the traditional submissive mate do other than sit on their arse all day long?"

"They serve as the heart of the house," said Draco, still insulted. He thought he might understand a _little _after hearing Granger talk about some women had been treated in some Muggle societies, but a mate was different. "They serve as the inspiration for their dominant mate. The dominants protect them and pamper them. They _cooperate _to form the eggs." He thought Potter would like to hear that.

But Potter looked, if possible, more revolted than before. "I spent seventeen years being a symbol for people," he said, almost spitting the words. "Do you think I want to do it again?"

"It looks to me like you're doing it by involving yourself with the Ministry and accepting that Order of Merlin," Draco retorted, gesturing to the ornament on Potter's chest.

"That can be the work that people think I'm doing, if they want. The real work is harder and longer and more lasting." Potter leaned a little away from Draco. "You still haven't said what you can compromise on. All you can do is talk about a role that I can't play."

"But _everyone _wants someone to give them some attention and pampering," said Draco, stupefied. He had wanted that, Pansy had, his mother had, even Crabbe and Goyle had. Before Draco had known himself to be a dominant, he had thought it wouldn't be such a bad thing to be a submissive and receive care all his life.

"That doesn't mean they want it non-stop." Potter rocked back on his heels with his arms folded. Draco swallowed. That motion of rejection still made his stomach hurt, although it wasn't as bad as the insults. "Work with me here, Malfoy. You have to stop making assumptions about what 'normal mates are like' and 'what everyone wants.' Assume I know nothing. Assume I'm not normal." Potter gave him a strange, dark smile. "Normal people don't walk up to their enemies intending to sacrifice their lives to save the world."

Draco felt his feathers shift, curling like his claws into sharper points. Potter eyed them, but didn't move away.

"You'll never have to do anything like that again," Draco whispered. "_I'll _protect you."

"Lucky for you that I changed my mind about being an Auror," Potter said, and went on before Draco could explode at the mere thought of his mate placing himself in a dangerous situation. "But that doesn't change the fact that I'll still be in danger. There are an awful lot of people who want to kill me. What are you planning to do about that? You can't just accompany me and stand in front of me all the time."

"You could stay _home_," Draco said, wondering how many times he would need to repeat it. "That's the way a normal mating bond works."

"What did I tell you about assumptions?"

Draco's head was pounding, and this time, not because of a rejection by Potter. "That's what mates do. It's as much to soothe the dominant's temper as it is to protect the submissive. I can't _stand _it when you're in danger."

"The one that's the most danger to me at the moment is you," said Potter, not moving. "A danger to my hopes of living the life I want. You have to work with me here, and sitting there and prating about the way you want to do things and nothing else won't accomplish that. What can you compromise on? What can you not compromise on?"

"I can't compromise on having you out of the house on a regular basis. You have to stay there."

Potter spun his wand lazily through his fingers. "Try again."

"You asked me a question, and I told you." Draco dragged himself up to a sitting position. "Just because you said that you—"

"I said that I intend to go on living my life." The laziness, this time from the look in Potter's eyes, was really quite annoying, as though what Draco wanted didn't ultimately matter more than what Potter did. "Now. I'm willing to avoid putting myself in obvious danger, to stay behind stronger wards, even to live at your house." Potter grimaced, but Draco had the feeling that it was only skin-deep, as if Potter's choice of living space didn't matter that much to him. "But I'm not willing to give up everything I'm doing and behave like the normal mate that you know I'm not. Is that compromise acceptable or not?"

"_No_."

"Why not?"

"There's still the chance that you could be in danger—"

"And there's the chance that I could be in danger even if I did everything you wanted." Potter leaned forwards and poked Draco in the chest with his wand. "Did you know that a dragon tried to tear down the Ministry to get at me last month?"

Draco stared at him. "What? Why?"

"They couldn't be absolutely certain, but by the time they managed to subdue the dragon, they found that it had magic hanging about its head and ears similar to the magic in the Dark Mark." Potter shrugged and settled back on his heels. "When they removed that spell, the dragon lost interest in me. I think a dragon could do a lot of damage even to the wards on your Manor, right? Most of those old houses aren't built to withstand a determined magical creature."

"Because wizards have proved our superiority and they don't come near us to attack us," Draco whispered, but his head was spinning so hard that he knew he would have trouble getting up from the floor. Potter had enemies that savage and that dangerous?

Draco didn't know if he _could _protect his mate from danger like that, as much as the realization made it hard to breathe.

"So." Potter flipped an eyebrow up at Draco. "I've made compromises with the Ministry security they wanted around me at all times, and with their longing to dress me up in nice robes and parade me around all the time, and with the press. I can do it with you, too. But you have to actually _make _them, not just sit there bleating about something that can never be a reality. What about it?"

Draco winced. "First," he said, "don't use words like bleating. It makes me feel like I've attempted to fly through a steel bar."

Potter studied him, then nodded. "All right. I didn't know that. I won't. What else?"

Draco was silent, looking at him. Potter was far different than Draco had thought, and not only because he wasn't submissive. He seemed so _tough_. He had said that he could compromise, but Draco had the sudden feeling that that was because those compromises were only foam on the waves of the ocean to him; all the things about Potter that mattered, the important things, his values and his desires, were buried deep down, and hard to reach.

Draco licked his lips.

_I could value a mate like that. Someone who has to be sought, who can't be easily understood or conquered._

He _could_. It wasn't what he had been raised knowing he would have, and Potter's sweet submission would still make him happiest. But it was possible that he could change his mind enough for this conversation.

Because giving up Potter wasn't an option. Perhaps even more so now that he knew what Potter was really like.

_He's mine. And what is mine, I keep._


	4. Settlements and Secrets

Thank you for all the reviews!

_Chapter Four—Settlement and Secrets_

"Did you settle things?" Ron asked, coming up to Harry the moment he and Malfoy stepped out of the anteroom. They were back once more in the Atrium, but the Aurors had cleared the reporters and other people who might have lingered to gossip and stare out. Harry was grateful for that. He had the impression that it would be hard enough not to snap at Malfoy as it was, and the presence of people Malfoy had obviously wanted to impress—since he had decided to show up and "claim" Harry in public—would have made it infinitely hard.

"We've agreed that I'll live in Malfoy Manor and try not to insult him," said Harry. He glanced sideways at Malfoy. He had finally let go of Harry's hand with his wing, but in exchange for keeping the edge of the wing on Harry's shoulder instead. Right now, he appeared to be staring off into the distance, ignoring Ron and Hermione, who had crowded up on Harry's other side. "And that I won't put myself in unnecessary danger."

Ron whistled softly. "That's a lot for a Veela to agree to."

"Do submissive mates get _any _say in these situations?" Harry asked. Ron—and Malfoy—kept talking about what Veela wanted and didn't want and were used to, and so far it seemed incredible to Harry that no submissive mate ever rebelled or ran away. Their lives must _suck_.

"Usually, this is what they want." Ron sounded a little apologetic, at least, even as he shook his head. "To be taken care of and be the heart of the house."

"That's a phrase I'm going to look up," said Hermione, making a little note on a scroll of parchment she was carrying with her. Harry craned his neck, not surprised to see that the word "Veela" already showed up several times. "Other people keep saying it, as though everyone is supposed to know what it means, but I don't."

"That's because you—"

"Anything you can say about her also applies to me," Harry muttered to him, cutting Malfoy off. "I'm Muggle-raised, and I might as well have been Muggleborn when I came into the wizarding world."

Malfoy gazed helplessly at him for a moment, and then looked away. Again Harry's stomach churned with pity. Maybe some people loved being looked at like that, maybe some people loved doing the looking, but Harry didn't think that was the case for Malfoy this time, any more than it was for him.

"Fine," said Malfoy, after a moment. "My mother—my mother deserves to know what happened and that things didn't fall out as I expected. And if you come home with me, then you can start moving in."

"If it doesn't take more than two hours," said Harry, and cast a _Tempus _Charm just to make sure, even though he had the schedule drilled into his head every morning by obsessive reading. "I have a meeting in two hours."

"A _meeting_?"

_Maybe that word means something different in Veela. _"Yes," said Harry, evenly. "With some Muggleborn wizards who left our world and went back to Muggle society when they completed their education at Hogwarts. Partially because of Voldemort." Malfoy tensed at the mention of the name, but didn't flinch. _Interesting_. "I convinced them to set up this meeting and talk with me. Maybe I can persuade them to move back and lead some of their lives here."

"Why would you want them to come back?"

"That, right there," Harry told him, "shows that you don't understand what I'm trying to accomplish here." He turned to Kingsley, who had waited off to the side. Harry felt a little bad at making the Minister wait like that, but he'd done the same thing with Fudge and Scrimgeour. He supposed that he should continue the tradition even with the one Minister that he liked. "What do you think the effect on the public of this mating bond is likely to be, sir?"

Kingsley squinted at Malfoy and then shook his head, a little sadly. Harry had to grin. Kingsley was a good actor and could play up any kind of emotion that would benefit the situation, no matter what it was.

"I think that the pure-blood crowd might like it, a bit," Kingsley finally replied, turning back to him. "Not as much as they'd like it if you were the submissive in truth."

Harry firmly squashed the question in his eyes. "They've agreed to talk to me even though I have a Muggleborn mother. They'll agree to talk to me even when I have a non-submissive Veela bond."

"Who have you been talking to?" Malfoy stared at him. "And why didn't they convince you of the right way to act when you have a dominant mate?"

"The Greengrasses are probably the only ones you know," said Harry, but continued on to answer the question in his eyes when he wouldn't stop staring. "The Hellions, the Raysons, the Kleins."

Malfoy opened his mouth and then closed it again, looking disturbed. "None of those are pure-blood families in bad standing," he said slowly. "But they're not the kind of people who have much power or influence."

"Right now, the ones who have a lot of power and influence don't want to talk to me," said Harry dryly. "I'm hoping that will change."

"A Veela mate might change it." Malfoy leaned along the length of his wing against Harry's shoulder. "Someone who acts properly in public and can convince others that he's a real Veela mate, at least."

"Good, that should be no problem for you," said Harry, and took up his wand while Malfoy was still silently spluttering. "Shall I go to my flat and get my things, and meet you at the Manor?"

"Of course not." Malfoy sounded a little ill. "I'm going with you."

Harry nodded, resigned. He really should have guessed that from Malfoy's failure to let go of his shoulder even though they were in public now. "Come on, then," he said, and extended his arm for the Side-Along Apparition.

* * *

It hurt Draco's soul to see the place Potter had been living.

It was one of the flats in Hogsmeade that you could rent if you knew where to look for them, at the top of a building with a shop on the ground floor and the shopkeeper's quarters on the first floor. In this case, the shop was Zonko's, and Draco had assumed when going in that he would find Potter's rooms piled with gifts of toys and pranks from the shop.

But instead, he found a mostly bare place, with a roof that slanted like an attic's and a window that looked out on other buildings' walls instead of over the prospect of Hogsmeade, as small as that prospect was in itself. Potter did have a few photographs on the mantel, and a single display of what looked like a prank—but not from Zonko's—in the form of an open box with some smoking and vibrating little toys near the door. Draco stared at them. They were probably Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, he decided a moment later.

He didn't have long to examine them, though, because Potter was striding around the room packing his clothes and his pillows and a whole box of personal items that he apparently kept _under his bed, _and Draco had to move constantly to remain in contact with him. He finally snapped, "Can't you just stand in one place and use the Packing Charm or the Summoning Charm, Potter?"

Potter stopped with a breathless little sound and closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Of course. I'm sorry, Malfoy. I'm—a bit rattled."

Draco wanted to say that reasonable people would wait past the appointed meeting hour if they knew what was good for them, but Potter aimed his wand at several corners of the room and incanted several Summoning Charms. More books and pieces of parchment than Draco would have thought were there came flying out from under loose floorboards and the mattress and the stones on the fireplace.

"Are you paranoid or something, Potter?" Draco finally asked, as he watched contents that wouldn't have disgraced his own library at home shrink and settle into Potter's single small and battered trunk. Potter heaved it up onto his other shoulder, the one Draco wasn't touching. "And you could float that behind you, you know."

"That's right, I could," said Potter, and cast the spell that would make the trunk float, then started towards the door at a smart clip. It was just within the limitations of the pace Draco could keep up with if he wanted to keep his wing resting on Potter's shoulder. He cursed softly and followed.

"Are you paranoid?" he repeated, as they reached the bottom step of the staircase that led out onto the street.

Potter gave a small shrug with his free shoulder. "Zonko let me rent the room when there were still Death Eaters after me. I owe it to him to take reasonable precautions."

_And even unreasonable ones, _Draco thought in irritation.

"Hiding all your books and possession doesn't seem reasonable to me," he said, trotting to keep up with Potter as he started striding again. "And will you _walk _slower?"

Potter slowed his pace at once. "Sorry," he said, absently. "I'll try to be better about that. I'm just not used to having someone walk touching me."

"You'll try," Draco said. "You realize that we're not likely to get a second chance if you mess this one up?"

Potter eyed him mildly over his shoulder. "I thought no one really knew what happened when a mate refused a Veela, because it had never happened before."

"I don't think fainting and trying to claw my eyes out are positive symptoms."

Potter seemed to engage in much longer and deeper thinking about that than was at all justified, but when he gave a faint smile at Draco again, at least Draco knew that he hadn't dismissed it out of hand.

"Right," he said. "Tell me when something's hurting you, and I'll do what I can to help you."

Draco thought of claiming that he hurt all the time with Potter's rejection of him, and only a kiss or a more than casual touch could make it better, but Potter was already reaching out with one hand. "I think I remember what the gates of Malfoy Manor look like," he said. "It'll be all right if I Apparate us there?"

"Please, Potter," said Draco with a sneer, and moved in to wrap his arms and wings around Potter. He wanted to melt into the shiver of pure pleasure that enveloped him when he did that, but he doubted Potter would be sympathetic. "I'm the Veela here. I'll do it."

* * *

_He's also the one who lives in Malfoy Manor._

It was that consideration that kept Harry from protesting, not any desire to submit to Malfoy's dominant Veela-hood, whatever he thought. It was also that consideration that kept him silent as they proceeded along the corridors of the Manor, and into a room covered with mirrors and loaded with white furniture, where a woman Harry had last seen being tried for her knowledge of Death Eater activities rose expectantly to her feet.

Narcissa Malfoy wore white, like everything else in the room. She also wore a pinched and disapproving expression when her eyes fell on Harry's bare chest, and she said, speaking to Malfoy alone, "He didn't accept the medallion?"

"He's Muggle-raised," Malfoy said, with directness that Harry could only commend him for. At least Malfoy had lowered his embracing wings enough that Harry could see over the top of them. "He doesn't know the traditions, and he doesn't feel the instinctive submissiveness."

Narcissa's mouth fell a little open. Harry raised an eyebrow. He hadn't thought anything could do that. She had taken even her trial and the punishment of her husband with a life's sentence in Azkaban calmly.

Well, all right, he had seen her close her eyes once. That was right before Malfoy himself was acquitted of most of the charges against him.

"What?" Narcissa came up to him, and Harry really thought she might lay a hand on his forehead to check for fever or something. Luckily, she didn't, but once again looked at Malfoy instead of him. "How can that be? The submissive instincts are natural. Inborn."

"Less inborn than many people think they are, at least with me," said Harry, as politely as he could. He glanced at Malfoy, but his gaze was averted as if he was ashamed. Harry had to continue without him. "Malfoy and I are doing our best to compromise. I don't want to get into danger that affects him, or insult him without knowing what I'm doing. But I can't stay in the house all the time, either."

Narcissa put her hands to her cheeks as if trying to hold down a blush or a shout. "This is unexpected," she whispered.

Harry gave a little shrug in response. He supposed he should be embarrassed himself, but this time, unlike the times when he hadn't studied a book Hermione got him, or he had forgotten about Sirius's mirror, it wasn't his fault. He hadn't known about Veela or mates, and no one had ever seen fit to enlighten him. It didn't happen often, Harry supposed, or they would have taught him something about it in Care of Magical Creatures if nowhere else. As it was, they would have to muddle through.

Narcissa dropped her hands and stood looking into the distance as if considering something. Then she turned back to Harry. "Did you come here merely to meet me, or for some other reason?"

"Malfoy and I agreed that I ought to live here."

"Then we need a room prepared for you," said Narcissa, and looked over his shoulder to catch Malfoy's eye. Harry started to turn around, but Malfoy pushed a wing into his shoulder and made him stand still. Harry grimaced, rolled his eyes, and did so. If they wanted to have a private discussion about elves or spells or the kind of rooms that he needed, so be it. He was sure that he would find enough hidden places to store his belongings, and that was all that really concerned him at the moment.

The silent eye-conversation ended, and Narcissa turned back towards him with a calmer expression. "Would you prefer the east wing or the west wing?"

Harry half-shrugged. "Which set of rooms is closer to Malfoy's?"

The wing on his shoulder trembled, and Malfoy leaned in until Harry could feel his breath on the lobe of his ear. "I didn't know that you wanted to be close to me. That's a very good sign."

_Well, you might need me in the middle of the night, and I don't fancy running all over a house this big. _But Harry wasn't about to say that. He knew that Malfoy would react better if he didn't have insults or comments that implied they weren't normal. "Good," he said. "So. Which one?" He wasn't going to cast another _Tempus _Charm until he had to, but he knew that the time for his meeting with Muggleborns was getting closer and closer, and he would have to leave fairly soon if he wanted to get there on time.

"The east wing," said Narcissa, and glided off in what Harry thought was probably the right direction. "Follow me, please."

Harry blinked a little at her back. He had thought she would get some house-elves to lead them, but as it was…

_Well. This is polite of her, at least._

Harry settled into a long, swinging walk, aware of Malfoy coming along behind him with little flutters of his wings against the side of Harry's neck. He was still breathing on Harry's ear, too, and if Harry didn't listen closely, the noises sounded distinctly like little sighs of passion.

Harry closed his eyes in resignation. That was the part he hadn't wanted to think about closely, the fact that he would have to sleep with Malfoy at some point.

_What the hell. It's only sex._

He hated to think about it like that, with one part of him, the part that had wanted to spend time hiding away after the war. The part of him that whimpered in the night and wanted Sirius back. The part of him that was afraid of all the threats that the Aurors had protected him from in the last few months.

But everyone had a part like that, Harry thought. The trick was not to listen to it.

And if he had to ignore it to get through sex with Malfoy, fine. He would do what he had to do.


	5. Walls and Windows

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_Chapter Five—Walls and Windows_

"Do you like it?"

Draco caught his breath after he spoke the words, and promptly cursed himself. How was he ever going to get anywhere with his mate if he reacted like a nervous schoolgirl?

But only he could know the sharp thrill that went through him as Potter stopped in the middle of the bedroom, spread his arms, and looked around as though he wanted to estimate the distance between his fingers and the walls. At least Draco took confidence from that. If it were a proper bond already, settled the way it _should _be, then Potter would be tuned to his emotions. As it was, Draco was spared humiliation.

"It'll do, thanks," said Potter absently, and plunked his trunk down to the side of the bed. "You don't mind if I use the cupboard space?" He moved his head towards the doors visible on the far side of the bed, eyes returning to Draco with what looked like equal absence of mind.

"But do you _like _it?" Draco knew he probably should have stayed where he was and let Potter sort himself out, but he couldn't help it. He came towards him, fingers floating to a halt just shy of Potter's shoulders. "The colors, the layout, the way the bed's arranged? All you have to say is a single word, and it can be changed to suit you. Whatever you'd like."

Potter gave him a glance that Draco couldn't read, and then looked around again. Draco tried to see the rooms through a stranger's eyes. The walls were a cool mixture of green and blue and white, one color sometimes predominating over the others in a corner or near a window, but quickly vanishing into the soft blending again. The bed was curved, the top extending away like Draco's wings, the better to give more space for extra pillows and an attached writing desk. The rugs that scattered the stone floor were the same colors as the walls, and small representations of the solar system covered the ceiling in subdued, glittering gold and silver lights.

"Well, yeah," said Potter. "I said, it'll do."

Draco flinched. Potter sighed and bent down to dig in the trunk. "Is this your room? Did I insult you by not liking it? But I do."

Draco shook his head, without words. No, he didn't think Potter was insulting him, or even his family, or his family's taste. It was more—

It was more that the room was just a room to him, and he didn't care. Not about the magnificent view out over a lake—false, enchanted, of course, but since when would even a Gryffindor care about that?—or the size of the bed or the conveniences that would appear if he summoned them. It was just a place to live, and that was that.

Draco touched a wing to Potter's shoulder. Potter looked up. "Yeah?"

He was distant, from his eyes. Probably already in that bloody meeting, Draco thought, and for the first time in his life, he was jealous of a Muggleborn.

"You can come up here to be alone whenever you like," he said. It was probably useless to make Potter care about the room more than he already did, but he had to try. The Veela in him wanted its mate safe in the rooms where he _should _spend so much time. "You can call a house-elf if there's anything that's missing. The table attached to the bed will let you write on it, look." He leaned over and pulled it out.

"It is nice," said Potter. And he looked at it, but Draco knew he missed everything important, from the softly glowing brown of the mahogany wood it was made of to the gold-handled drawers underneath it. "Now, do you want to come to the meeting with me?"

Draco shut his eyes. It was still the same day that he had intended to claim Potter, he reminded himself. Remember that. He couldn't expect all their compromises to happen at once.

But knowing that if he had had a _normal _mate, he would have installed them already in his own rooms, and flown them around the Manor on a tender, triumphant parade of possession, and introduced them to the house-elves, and brought their first meal to share, it was hard to open his eyes again to this poorer world.

"Yes," he said. "I don't think we should be separated for today."

He expected Potter to ask why. Potter only nodded and waved his wand in a swift flick that sent some of his clothes flying into the cupboards and spread others out on the bed.

"Good, then come on," said Potter, and moved towards the door, at a pace that would let Draco keep his wing on his shoulder. "We should just make it if we hurry."

His stomach as cold as an underground pool, Draco moved with him.

* * *

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Potter."

Harry smiled without difficulty. While Charis Green, the Muggleborn witch standing at the head of the table, was a little prickly, all her objections were reasonable ones. And at least she had come, and brought the others with her.

"Thank _you_," he said, and shook her hand. He raised an eyebrow for a second when she stood there as if Stunned, and then realized that she was looking at Malfoy. "Oh. Yes. This is Draco Malfoy, my Veela mate."

The words made Malfoy press close to him from behind, taking a deep breath. Harry stood still and bore it. He couldn't imagine a world where his neck smelled _that _fascinating, but obviously Malfoy lived in such a world. Harry didn't want to hurt him. He would put up with it, and even with the wrinkles of suspicion that he could see bending Charis's eyes.

Before she could object, though, another member of the small delegation spoke up. "You would invite a _pure-blood _to speak to us?"

Harry turned to the person who was prickly enough that he hated when he showed up at meetings, Patrick Osborne. "Yes. Sorry. It's a matter of Veela life and death that he be with me, at least for today."

Osborne frowned and took his chair. He was a stocky man with a nose that Harry had never seen not wrinkled, and now he wrinkled it at Malfoy.

"I suppose if it's a matter of life and death," he said.

Harry nodded. It was best not to get angry at Osborne, who would only take whatever someone had said and craft it into a more devastating insult. And this wasn't insulting, as far as conversations with him went. "Tell me what you were talking about last time," he said, taking his chair at the head of the table. Malfoy stood behind him, which Harry thought was weird. This was a large room in the Ministry, not exactly airy but with enchanted windows that made it seem that way, and there were plenty of chairs around the table thanks to the disgust of some Muggleborns who had decided not to show up after the last meeting.

But maybe ignoring Malfoy's weird behavior was as wise as ignoring Osborne's insults. Harry didn't intend to spend a lot of time being worried about it, in any case. He laid his hands on the table in front of him and leaned forwards. "Well? Do you want to start?" He turned to Charis, a little surprised that Osborne or one of the others hadn't already grabbed the opportunity.

Charis sighed and stretched out her arm. "I left after the first war," she said. "Except for short journeys back to Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade when I needed some Potions ingredients, I hadn't been in the wizarding world since. Until I got contacted for these meetings."

Harry nodded encouragingly. Charis looked around at the others—seven in all—as though recovering strength from them, and then went on.

"I only heard about this, you understand. I didn't experience it." She toyed with the edge of her sleeve. "But they said that people were accusing Muggleborns during the war of stealing wands from pure-bloods."

"That did happen," said Harry, the image of that room where Umbridge had sat smugly sheltered behind her cat Patronus from Dementors blazing in his mind. He felt Malfoy shift his weight behind him, but mercifully, he said nothing.

"How do we know it's not going to happen again?" Osborne had found his tongue. "How do we know another war's not going to start and they're not going to say that we can't have wands again? Or how do we know that we're not going to come back and someone will think we're criminals because we've been gone from the wizarding world for so long? I don't want to be thrown into Azkaban because someone doesn't recognize my wand or my last name."

As prickly as Osborne was, he made good points. Harry nodded. "For the war, that's one reason that I'm trying as hard as I can to keep peace between the Muggleborns and the pure-bloods," he said.

"We can hardly help it if they break the peace and attack first." Osborne folded his arms.

"I know," said Harry. "That's one reason to work on it, though."

"That doesn't alleviate the more practical, day-to-day concerns," interrupted Annie Wellwent, a woman with a nasal voice and turned-up nose who always reminded Harry of his Aunt Petunia. He struggled against his instinctive revulsion when it came to her, though, because she did sometimes make good points. "Like being attacked for our wands, or sneered at and spat upon."

"That will need a longer-term strategy," said Harry. For a moment, the words consumed him with weariness. How many times had he said this since the war, to different groups of people who wanted quicker solutions?

He shook the feeling away. Even though he had said it to those other groups, he hadn't said it to _this _one.

"I don't know what your long-term strategy consists of, though," said Charis, and did some more frowning in his direction. "It involves patting of the air and platitudes when you talk to us, but none of those is concrete action."

Harry paused, and swallowed. He had one of those ideas that had burst in his head in a way that seemed like a blinding flash of insight, even though he suspected he'd been thinking about them subconsciously for a while. But this one really couldn't have had long to brew, given the events of the morning.

"One good-will gesture that might help is for my Veela mate, Draco Malfoy, to ask some of the pure-bloods to consider treating Muggleborns better," said Harry. "After all, his life and mine are tied now, and we need to show that the same thing is true of pure-bloods and Muggleborns. There are so few wizards left, and even some have died since the war, of wounds they got in it or old age. We need to send a message of strength." He turned and looked up at Malfoy. "What do you think? Can we appear together in public and send that message?"

* * *

Draco stared at Potter, shaken by a complicated rage.

No submissive mate used the Veela bond for political gain like that. No one who was truly the heart of the house, and understood the division between public and private, would _ask_. They would know the bond as a separate and sacred thing, and while they would go along with it if their dominant mate wanted to display for others, they would retire back into the house the second that it was done.

"I don't think that I want our bond to be used like that," he said, the first thing that came to mind. Maybe he could have softened it a little for Potter's Muggleborn allies, but he saw no reason to. They weren't _his _allies.

Potter's eyes went blank for a moment, as if he was considering alternatives. But instead of trying to persuade Draco, the way Draco had thought he would, he said, "All right," and turned back to the table of Muggleborns.

The rage grew more complicated. Draco reached out and put a hand on Potter's shoulder, beside the wing.

"Yes?" Potter tilted his head back to look at Draco, without a trace of the trembling gratitude that should accompany every movement from a submissive.

Draco struck as hard as he could, because things were wrong but he didn't know _why_, and maybe striking would help massage them back into shape. "How can you ask me for something, and then yield like that?" he asked. "If it's important to you, you should _fight _for it." He squeezed down, hard enough that he thought he might have dented Potter's shoulder blade.

There was no pain in Potter's face, though, and Draco wondered about that. Maybe he was just so used to being beaten up while he was fighting the Dark Lord that he didn't acknowledge his own pain the way he should.

_He doesn't do _anything _the way he should, _Draco snarled to himself in silent frustration.

"I asked you for something I thought made sense," said Potter, his voice soft and precise. He seemed to have forgotten about the audience on the other side of the table. Draco hadn't, but when his eyes darted to them, against his will, he saw them sitting frozen, as if this was outside their experience and they didn't know what they should do. "You don't want our bond to be used like that. I don't know what else there is to discuss."

Draco bent down towards Potter and lowered his voice. At least some of the tales about dominant Veela and their submissive mates said that dominants could speak in a special tone that no one but the submissive could hear, and Draco was desperate enough to try that now, even though he didn't think it would work. "You _argue _with me. You used to do that all the time! What happened?"

"You made it clear that arguing with you wouldn't do any good," said Potter. "The way that arguing about living with you and being your mate wouldn't. There are things that can do some good, like arguing with you about living outside the house, so I did that. But I thought this would be one of the things we could compromise on." He sounded genuinely confused, as if he thought that he was doing his best to be a compliant little Veela mate and didn't understand what Draco's problem with it was.

Draco massaged with his hand instead of squeezed. Maybe kindness instead of frustration would prove his point. "But you just gave up. That isn't compromising."

Potter abruptly looked around, said, "Excuse me while we take this outside," and stood up, seizing Draco's wing. Draco felt himself arching his neck, his mouth dropping open. He hadn't expected the first real touch to his wing from his submissive to come like this, but it paralyzed him with pleasure. It made him feel like he was floating in the middle of thick, sticky water and being supported by warm arms, all at once.

By the time Potter let his wing go, they were out in the corridor, and Potter spun on him.

"You don't understand a single thing I'm trying to do," Potter hissed, hand thrown up and coming dangerously near to hitting Draco in the face. Draco flinched back, irritated despite himself when Potter didn't flinch back in turn, but maintained his gaze. "I wanted to live my life. You said no. I tried to compromise. You didn't like some of the compromises. And now I'm going along with what you want, and not pressing you when you say that you don't want to use this bond as a political tool, and you're _upset?_ I thought that yielding to you like a good little submissive was the right thing. What do you _want_?"

_This._

Draco hadn't _really_ known. He would have said he wanted the usual submissive behavior, even after it was obvious that Potter wouldn't give him that. But it was all he knew about, and all he knew to ask for.

Now, he had a different idea. What he wanted was this Potter breathing fire and entirely focused on him, not thinking about the million other political compromises he had to make and if Draco would fit into the neat schedule of his life. Now Potter was in motion. Draco didn't want dead eyes and polite voices any more than he wanted Potter to point his wand at and threaten him. He just wanted—

_Arguments. That's weird to want arguments when he's the submissive._

But it was the same depth Draco had glimpsed in Potter a few hours earlier, and almost forgotten about since because Potter had done so many other weird things. If he could do something like this, though, and show he considered Draco worth fighting with, maybe he would eventually think Draco worth fighting _for_.

"I changed my mind," he said, as much to see Potter start and check and look at him with wary eyes as anything else. "I'll appear in public and send that message of unity and let other people see and talk about our bond." _At least that way, everyone will know about my claim._

Potter was still, cautious. Then he said, "What prompted you to change your mind?"

"The way you looked when I refused," said Draco.

It was honest, but Potter didn't understand, he could see that much, and Draco didn't think he had the words to explain it right now. Perhaps in a while. Potter took a step back, then nodded, and said, "Then we'll go back in there and explain it to them. And hope it's a _good _explanation, one they accept."

Draco followed him. He didn't care about the Muggleborns except insofar as they mattered to Potter's happiness and maybe the time he spent with them that might cut into the time he spent with Draco. He had got a glimpse of something more precious, something he was going to hang onto.

_Who would want a mere pond, when they could have the ocean?_


	6. Appearances and Artifices

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_Chapter Six—Appearances and Artifices_

"You look sufficient." Narcissa Malfoy stood at the bottom of the staircase Harry was coming down, appraising him with what Harry supposed was an expert eye.

Harry gave the ghost of a smile. It had been a long few days since their meeting with the Muggleborns, while he and Malfoy tried to settle in around each other and decide what to do with other people's expectations at the same time. Harry had at least managed to get Charis and the others to agree to a second meeting.

And meanwhile, the news of him being Malfoy's mate had got out in the papers, which exploded.

Harry had read the articles, of course—it was his job to keep abreast of the political tenor of the wizarding world if he was going to try and _affect _those politics—but one thing he had noticed was that pure-bloods remained mostly silent. Almost everyone the newspaper quoted was Muggleborn or half-blood. Some members of the Ministry expressed shock, but they specifically said, "_I _feel…" Harry had had some education over the summer. He knew that meant they were speaking as private individuals, and not for their families.

"I have never seen you look so before."

Harry returned to the moment, and the conversation with Narcissa. Another thing he was working on was keeping his mind on the present, since people got offended if he seemed to be thinking of something else. "You mean the clothes?" He looked down at the blue robes he wore, which seemed to shimmer around him. At least they weren't heavy. Harry had worn dress robes that felt like anchors.

"Yes," said Narcissa. "You certainly had the money to afford robes like this before the war. Why did you never do so?"

Harry snorted a little. "Because I didn't care what I looked like, and what other people thought about me. Or, well, only when they were doing things like sending letters full of bubotuber pus to my friends because of articles in the paper."

"Why?"

Harry decided that he was going to interpret that as a question about his indifference towards public opinion, and not as a question about why he cared about his friends. Everything would stay more peaceful that way. "Because I tended to get into these situations unwillingly. I didn't know that people were going to believe I was the Heir of Slytherin, or I was going to be entered into the Triwizard Tournament. They could put up with me being me. But now I'm choosing to try and prevent another war. I have to care what I look like."

"I think Mother's wrong. You look magnificent, not merely _sufficient_."

A little uneasy, Harry looked over his shoulder. Malfoy was standing at the top of the staircase, a few paces behind him, eyes devouring Harry. He had torn himself away from Harry that first night so they could at least sleep in private, and it had never been so bad since.

_He _wore robes that Harry thought were white, then stirred and settled into deeper shades of gold as he came down the steps. When he got closer, Harry could see the robes were almost plaques in the front, nonexistent in the back, leaving lots of space for Malfoy's wings. A sash did cinch around his waist and hold the robes up, so he would stay decent when his wings were down and folded.

He had them up now, though, fluttering back and forth. When Harry looked up and met Malfoy's eyes again, he saw that they were fixed on him, and a soft, bubbling croon had started up far back in his throat.

Harry recognized this from something Malfoy had said the other day as a courting gesture, and he stood still while Malfoy came down the steps to him and brushed his hair back from his face with one hand. Harry still thought that was odd, the compulsion to touch him, but it was part of the Veela bond. A lot of things were. As Harry had told Malfoy, those things that he didn't _have _to resist, he would go along with.

"You're beautiful," Malfoy said, and dipped his head and stared at Harry from beneath dramatically lowered eyelashes.

Harry knew what he wanted to hear. That he was beautiful in turn, and Harry wanted to touch him, kiss him, sleep with him, submit to him.

It wouldn't do any good to lie, though, with Malfoy apparently more tuned to his emotions now; he had known Harry was angry the other day about one of the articles without Harry having to say a word. Harry just nodded and said, "You look nice, too," and then looked at the front door. "It's almost time for our little demonstration. Shall we go?"

* * *

Anxiety buzzed and bubbled in the back of Draco's mind as he crossed the stretch of open ground between the gates of Hogwarts. The winged boars on the gates seemed to bristle with their own indications of danger. The people gathered in front of Dumbledore's tomb, where it had been Potter's idea to stage this, craned their necks almost immediately and started murmuring to each other with a sound like the tide.

_What if someone's hiding in there who intends to claim Potter for himself? _

Draco tried to walk more threateningly. It didn't work very well. For one thing, his wings were already spread to shelter Potter from danger and stares. He had to work on keeping his balance. A stalk didn't really go along with that.

For another, Potter wouldn't cooperate. He walked beside Draco, within the curve of his wing, but his eyes were traveling from face to face, and he smiled now and then, acknowledging someone else in the crowd. Draco didn't know who they were. Potter hadn't spoken about that to him. He seemed to know an enormous range of people, and not all of them were the sort of visitors Draco would welcome coming close to his mate.

But he also knew that this wasn't the sort of thing Potter would compromise on. And he would endure a lot to keep the relative harmony that had flourished between them the last few days, without Potter retreating from him the way he knew how to do so well.

"Malfoy."

Potter spoke quietly, only to him. Draco dipped his head and let his croon bubble out again. That made Potter shrug his shoulders as though someone had put a hand on them. Draco didn't mind it, though. At least it was a _reaction_.

"Yes, what is it?" Draco finally thought to ask. Potter had presumably spoken his name because there was something he wanted Draco to know.

"You should know that I heard from Ginny yesterday."

Draco worked out the name. "The youngest Weasley?" he finally asked.

"The girl I dated for a while," Potter said, nodding. His eyes remained ahead of him, as though he hadn't said a word just guaranteed to bring out a Veela's possessive side.

"The girl you are _no longer _dating," said Draco. His hand had claws suddenly. He didn't touch Potter, because of that, but he did hold his hand out to the side so Potter could make out the claws.

"Of course not. It wouldn't be fair to her."

_What about fair to me? What about that? _Draco held himself back from saying anything, though. Potter was at least saying that his relationship was in the past. Draco clicked his talon and pulled it back. "What did she say?"

"She was bewildered," said Potter. The crowd narrowed down to a tunnel of people ahead of them. Draco hissed softly and spread his wings, and some of them, because they were pure-bloods and knew better, sprang back so that they could open a pathway ahead of them. Draco wasn't appeased. They should _already _have done that. "But she grew up the same way as Ron. She told me it was an honor and that she was proud of me."

"Why?" Draco didn't think Weasley was proud of Potter's behavior. Still shocked, if anything.

"For not running away." Potter's mouth curved in a private smile that Draco couldn't understand and wanted to, the same way he wanted to understand everything about his mate. "She knew—"

But they had almost arrived at the front of the crowd, and Draco didn't want to discuss private business in front of everyone. He waved his hand again, and Potter fell silent. There was a rippling of green robes in front of them, and a witch Draco knew moved towards them.

Draco studied her face. This was Helena Greengrass, Daphne's mother. Narcissa and Helena had once discussed a betrothal contract with either Daphne or her younger sister Astoria, to be enacted on Draco's twenty-second birthday. When his mother found out that Draco would likely inherit his family's Veela tendencies in full measure, of course, they'd had to give up the idea. There was no saying that Draco would choose either Daphne or Astoria as his mate.

_Maybe it would have been better if I had_.

But Draco shivered under the lash of those thoughts, and that gave Helena the chance to speak the first words. "This is a surprise, Mr. Potter," she said, and her eyes passed over Draco's face as if she didn't know him.

"I know," said Potter. "It was a surprise to me, too. Both having a Veela mate, and all the traditions that came along with it." He gave Helena a smile that Draco paused and examined with a little wariness. He didn't exactly understand it, but it wasn't what he'd expected. He thought that was important, somehow.

Before he had the time to fully analyze Potter's smile, though, someone else moved forwards at the side of his attention and claimed most of his awareness. Daphne was standing there, hands behind her back and a small, mean smile in place.

"Did _you _know you were going to be Potter's mate?" she murmured.

"Not for long," Draco said. He didn't see the need to explain more. She understood all the things that Potter didn't, all the traditions.

"You do understand that we're trying to do something important here," Daphne continued without pausing. "Something that matters a lot more than who grows wings and who cowers at whose feet."

Draco had to pause again. He had never heard a pure-blood express sentiments like that. Potter had said he was dealing with the Greengrasses because they were amongst the more open-minded, because relatively powerless, of the pure-bloods. That didn't make them ignorant, though.

"I'm not planning to take Potter away from that," he said, after some moments of silence that he realized he had to turn into speech. Potter was talking with Helena about some aspects of the presentation that Draco knew he didn't have to manage. No one would expect him to cast the _Sonorus _Charms. "He's told me about his political work, and he's the only one who can manage that. I agree. For the moment, we've—come to a compromise about his being the heart of the house."

"But I know Veela," said Daphne, cocking her head back as though she was looking down a long line of Draco's ancestors as well as at him. "You won't be content with the compromise for long, whatever you might tell Harry. You'll want to take him away. And he'll fight you on that, and you'll get angry, and you'll beat him or whatever it is Veela do."

"No Veela would ever do that," Draco said, and his free hand had grown claws now.

"But no Veela has ever had a mate like this," Daphne said, and turned away from Draco to consider Potter. Draco might have thought it was simply dismissiveness, boredom, a few weeks ago.

Now he saw the focus for what it was, the light in Daphne's eyes as they rested on Potter, and he attacked.

He moved like a springing vulture, rising from the ground, his wings beating strongly behind him, his claws aimed ahead. Daphne was spinning to face him with a shocked face, one arm coming up to defend herself, her fingers gripped around the wand, but too slow, too slow. And Helena's mouth was open, and the thoughts were traveling through Draco's head faster than his wings could beat, and he knew that he might lose Potter a political ally, but he simply couldn't _help _this.

* * *

Harry found himself reacting as though he'd expected it when Malfoy went crazy beside him, even though he hadn't, not at all.

But nothing except predicting it could have explained the way he swung around, grabbing Malfoy's arms as he leaped into the air, and pulling Malfoy down into a half-hug. Malfoy fluttered his wings frantically, chopping and sawing with his claws at what Harry thought wasn't him, but Daphne. The scream that broke forth a second a later made Harry flinch, but not as much as he would have if he didn't have any war experience.

"Hush, it's okay," Harry whispered, rocking Malfoy against him. It was a ridiculous position to be caught in, and he saw Helena's eyebrows creeping up, but he had to ignore that for the moment. If his pure-blood allies didn't know any more than he did about Veela traditions and instincts, this little demonstration wouldn't impress them anyway. "She doesn't really care about touching me. I don't care about touching her. It won't matter."

Over Malfoy's head, through the wild mass of his hair sticking out like feathers, Harry caught a glimpse of Daphne's narrowed eyes and tightly compressed lips, and wanted to groan. _One thing couldn't go my way? I had to have someone who's decided on the basis of nothing that she wants me?_

But for right now, the truth was less important than calming Malfoy down. Harry talked to him in broken words about the necessity of honesty and communication and importance, and how it was okay, and how they would compromise even on this, and it was okay, and gradually Malfoy's claws vanished and he turned his head. His cheek brushed against Harry's, and his voice faded into another series of bubbling croons that became words as Harry listened to them.

"I want to protect you. I want to take you home and get you out of this." His hands closed almost tenderly on Harry's, and he looked into Harry's eyes. "Will you come with me?"

Harry moved a hand up so that he could cradle the back of Malfoy's head. He wanted to say something else, many things, but all the words were the sorts he would speak to a friend, and Malfoy wasn't that.

Then he thought of another way he could look at it. He could approach Malfoy as someone needing help, which was certainly true. He had been able to deal with all sorts of haughty pure-bloods and touchy Muggleborns since the war because of who he was, but also because he could see them as people who needed help.

He was good at helping people. It was probably his greatest talent.

"I'll come with you if that's what you're certain you want," he said. "If you're certain that you don't want to stay here and establish your claim in front of everyone."

For a second, Malfoy's eyes flared as though he was imagining that. Harry hoped he hadn't said something wrong, and Malfoy didn't think he'd agreed to sex.

But instead, Malfoy snapped his head back and forth with what looked like irritation, and focused again on Harry. "I'm certain that I want to go home."

"All right," said Harry quietly. This would have been a chance to establish other kinds of political bonds as well as demonstrate his "mating" with Malfoy, but things didn't always work out the way you wanted them to. He turned to Helena. "Will you excuse us, please? And excuse us to anyone else who'd like to know where we're going. I'm sure you'll know the right words."

"I know the right words," said Helena, her gaze slowly passing to Daphne, "but why should I use them?"

_Ugh_. Harry was startled by the surge of disgust that struck him. _So they were just helping me because—what? They thought Daphne would date me or something, and they would get influence that way?_

Harry sighed. "Because you want the cause that we're both serving to go forward as fast as I do?" he tried. "Because what we planned for today didn't work out, but we can at least keep the day from being completely wasted?"

Both the Greengrass women stared at him as though he was speaking in Mermish. Harry sighed again. He wished he could learn to stop overestimating people. Maybe he would be best served if he thought of most of them, except Ron and Hermione, as greedy bastards. Everyone wanted something.

Malfoy said, softly but with tremendous strength into his ear, "Let's go home." And he unfolded his wings as if he intended to fly Harry there.

"I don't have _time _for this," Harry said, and turned his back on Helena. "If you won't do it for me, I'll find someone who will."

"I will," said a quiet voice from behind Helena, and Harry saw her younger daughter, Astoria, peering around her. She had been in the year behind Ginny's at Hogwarts, Harry thought. He had learned a lot of information about pure-blood families who were willing to help him, but sometimes it swam and blended in his head. "I'll tell them that you had to go and tend to your dominant. They ought to understand that."

Harry nodded. At the moment, he wasn't in a position to quibble about _how _they understood it. "Thanks, Astoria."

_Even Helena ought to be satisfied with that, _he thought, as he made his way, supporting and speaking softly to Malfoy, towards the gates again. _It still redounds to the credit of her family._

As for Daphne…Harry shook his head. She wouldn't be satisfied with anything except what he wouldn't give her.

"You're thinking about her," Malfoy breathed into his ear, and nudged him and bit his neck possessively. "I don't want you to think about her."

Harry blinked a little. "Okay," he said, because he couldn't think of anything else. "I won't." It was easier to turn his attention to the sharp teeth sinking into his neck anyway.

Malfoy sighed and leaned on him. Harry snorted as he helped them around the gates and the milling crowd, breaking up in confusion now. _He's kind of cute when he's not trying to eviscerate people._


	7. Hearts and Houses

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Seven—Hearts and Houses_

"Unexpected jealousy like that weakens him."

Harry had accepted that explanation from Narcissa for why Malfoy had immediately fallen asleep when Harry got him up to his bedroom. And it made sense that he would want his "mate" near while he slept, with one wing curving around Harry. He hadn't actually forced Harry into his bed, at least; Harry could sit on a stool next to the bed and eat a meal and scan a letter from an ally.

Narcissa had come back and was standing in the center of the doorway like a pillar, watching him. Harry finally put his book down. It was bloody disconcerting, having her stand there like that.

"What?" he asked her.

Narcissa curled her lip a little, as if she found his words vulgar. Well, that was fine. She could think what she liked. "I do not understand how you can refuse Draco and yet seem so willing to accommodate him at the same time."

"He hasn't demanded anything important," Harry said. He knew Hermione was researching the heart of the house phrase, but she hadn't got back to him yet, so he'd started reading this book about Veela that seemed promising. He wanted to get back to it. He didn't want to sit here exchanging short and cryptic words with Narcissa. It was a Slytherin sport that held little appeal for him.

"He has demanded that you change your life, that you acknowledge your status as his mate—"

"None of that is _important_," Harry said. He didn't know why she didn't understand. She should have. She had gone through the war, and been reduced to the bare necessities of survival. She ought to have understood that very little mattered next to the incredible demands of life in a war zone.

"It is very important," said Narcissa. She came into the room and sat down on a big chair near the door, watching him. "It is a matter of life and death."

"Are we talking about the same thing? I know that he's going to die if I don't consent to do _something _with him—"

Narcissa held up a single hand. Harry fell silent, shrugging a little. And they sat quiet for a minute more before Narcissa began again, her voice low but passionate.

"One would think that, having been part of the war, you would fight harder than this when someone tries to restrict your freedom. To cut you off from what you value. To take over your life."

"That's not what you believe," Harry pointed out. "Or you would never have sent your son off to claim me in the midst of an award ceremony that was supposed to be for me and my friends."

Narcissa sat still again. Then she said, "I was trying to perform the art of seeing it from your point of view. I did not think I would need to. I thought your point of view would be that of most Veela mates."

"Well, it's not."

"It is not the viewpoint of a common Muggleborn, either, is it?" Narcissa didn't give him the chance to ask what a "common Muggleborn" would be. "You seem to think of this as an—obstacle."

"It is," said Harry. "And I face bigger obstacles every day. Like the absolute refusal of some people to stop using the word 'Mudblood' even when it destroys a whole important meeting." He scowled. He wouldn't forgive Gisella Zabini for that easily.

"It has changed your life."

"But not in an _important _way," Harry said, and shook his head when he saw her staring at him again. "The important thing to me is not having another war. I'm ready to work endlessly and wear stupid clothes and smile at stupid people day in and day out if I can just prevent that."

"Everything else is so much tinder to that?"

Harry thought about it. He wouldn't have put it like that, and there was always the exception of his friends, but… "Yeah," he said. "Basically. I'm indulging Malfoy in certain things because I don't want him to die. I'm tired of people dying because of me." It was the main reason he had decided against being an Auror. Causing one death had been enough. He would defend himself if he was attacked, but deliberately making someone die was something else.

"Where you live is not important to you," Narcissa said, for all the word like Hermione testing a hypothesis.

"Why should it be? I won't spend most of my time there anyway."

"Who you must marry is not important to you."

"This isn't a marriage."

Narcissa paused long enough that Harry wondered what she would say next. Then she said, "Many people would say that a Veela bond occupies the same place in someone's life as a marriage. Perhaps even more pressing, as it usually leads to the total commitment of one life to another, which marriage does not always do."

"I don't think of it that way."

"Of course not," Narcissa said. "For the reasons we have already discussed. But Draco does. And if you have been forbidding yourself to fight him because you did not realize it, what will you do when he takes your indifference for compliance and attempts to force the issue?"

Harry held himself still. He wanted to lash out, the way he did when he heard people talking about starting another war over their lost war. He wanted to hurt someone, the way he did when people said he hadn't done enough for the wizarding world and he had to give up more—the way he first had when Malfoy had marched up to him and announced that Harry was his mate.

"I thought so." Narcissa stood slowly, gaze lingering on Harry's face, and then traveling to the bed. "I thought that you were not fighting more because you did not realize the full extent of what Draco would want. But this is it."

"It's still not enough to make it a marriage," said Harry, lifting his head higher. He'd had a chance to think his way through his emotions now. "A marriage is between two people who love each other, not between two people who were only brought together because of whatever—instincts the Veela might have."

"Defining your terms in unusual ways will not keep you safe forever," Narcissa said, and bowed to him, and left, meaning Harry sat there in tense silence, his gaze on Malfoy's motionless face, and his hatred spitting like the ghost of Nagini behind his eyes.

_No. This isn't so. I won't allow it to be so._

_Why not? Because I won't allow it._

* * *

"It took me forever to find references to the heart of the house thing. Just like it took me forever for me to find references to dominant and submissive Veela mates. I think it's for the same reason. All the authors assume you know this bollocks already."

Draco lingered outside the door of the library. He shouldn't need to do such a thing in his own home, but Granger had shown up with that kind of deadly determined look in her eyes he recognized, taken one look at him, snorted a little, and towed Potter into the library and shut the door behind her. At least Draco could be that far apart from his mate now, and he knew his hands wouldn't grow claws and tear the door down in an attempt to get to Potter.

Unless Granger tried to lay a hand on him.

Draco smoothed a finger over his feathers and went back to listening. He knew that Granger and Weasley had only ever had eyes for each other's awful hair and equally awful freckles. He wouldn't fear them as serious rivals unless Potter started showing an interest in them. That was the weakest part of their bond, that Potter put up with Draco but showed no _desire _for him.

"What does it mean, then?" Potter still sounded calm like stagnant water. Draco was increasingly curious about what had happened to make him that way.

"It's weird," Granger said, and opened a book hard enough to make the cover hit the table. "It's strange."

"Would you _just tell me what it is?_" At least Potter's voice was cracking along the sides now, the way it had when he yelled at Draco the other day after the Muggleborn meeting.

There was a slight pause, and then Granger said, "You know, Harry, we talked about your temper and what you could say in public and what you couldn't."

Draco blinked several times. He had thought that Potter's calm and cool way of going along with things came from a growing acceptance of the bond, and that was some proof that it was natural after all, no matter what Potter and Granger thought on the matter. Now, it sounded like his calm was the result of deliberate training.

"I know we talked about it," Potter said. There was a squeaky sound that was maybe his elbow running along the table. "But it's hard to remember when it sounds like you're taunting me."

"I don't mean to," Granger said, and her voice softened. "I'm just wondering how to explain it."

"I don't care if you give me the highly technical explanation or not," said Potter. He sounded tired. Draco strained his ears and turned his head. If he'd had any notion his mate was that exhausted, he would have bundled him into bed. "Just give me one."

"All right," Granger said, and Draco heard the riffle of turning pages again. "From what I could find, being the 'heart of the house' does mean being a symbol for the dominant Veela, and the—the parent of these eggs that Veela can lay. " Not even Draco, outside the library, could mistake the discouraging nature of Potter's silence, which made Granger rush on. "But it also means that you can reach across the distance between the house and any other properties the Veela owns, and the house and any place where the Veela is. So you could see through Malfoy's eyes from a distance, and you could—essentially _be_ the house and feel what's happening to its stones and see through the eyes of its portraits. And you could do that with any other houses Malfoy owns, too."

_But of course he would be able to do that, _Draco thought in wonder. Had Potter thought Draco was just going to confine him to Malfoy Manor for the rest of his life and never let him go anywhere?

No wonder he hadn't—rebelled exactly. Just looked Draco dead in the eye and refused to say he'd do that, and then gone on about his life as if that didn't matter.

_He could have asked. We would have told him._

Draco grimaced. It was hard to admit that his manner hadn't exactly been encouraging with Potter when it came to asking.

"I still don't want it."

Draco jolted back to his own body and the scene happening in the library. Potter's voice was so soft, so flat, so definite. He seemed to be speaking to someone who had offered him sweets that he didn't want to eat in case he spoiled his dinner.

"Malfoy probably thinks you do, or you wouldn't have agreed to live in the Manor," Granger said, and then cleared her throat. Maybe she was receiving a glare from Potter. Draco hoped so. It was time someone besides him did so. "I mean—you didn't put up that much of a struggle about it."

"How much of a struggle," said Potter, slow and deep, and Draco didn't recognize this voice at _all_, "do I have to put up?"

"I'm just saying," said Granger, and Draco heard the sound of her shutting one of the books, as though she thought it was in danger. "I don't like it, either. I think it's hideously unfair." And there was the voice Draco had secretly been waiting to hear from her, the spiteful, bright one that she used when speaking of house-elves. He rolled his eyes. Potter wasn't a house-elf, and Draco would never make an attempt to treat him like one, and Granger ought to know that. "But Malfoy might think you're going along with—"

"I'm not."

Draco shivered. There was something touching his wing, plucking at the curve of it. He turned his head, curious, but found nothing there. Then it happened again, on his shoulder, and again on his arm, before he could even finish turning to look at his shoulder.

When he realized what it was, what it _must _be, he swallowed, a little awed. A submissive Veela's emotions were normally open to a dominant Veela at all times, but the connection weakened with distance. Draco had accepted that he wouldn't be able to tell much about Potter's emotions for a little while, other than basic things like whether he was lying. It would take time for the connection to open fully.

But now he was getting physical manifestations of those emotions, which normally only happened when the dominant was at a distance and not able to hear the submissive or feel that they were in danger. This kind of plucking told him that his mate needed him. And it was as strong as though the distance was miles apart and the danger urgent.

Draco thought he had waited long enough. He stepped forwards and opened the door of the library.

Granger turned to look at him with a pale face. She shook her head and held up her hand when she saw him, as if to warn him to stay back. Draco didn't listen to that. His mate needed him. He walked wide around the table, and towards Potter.

Potter was on his feet, his chair pushed a little back. He looked at Draco for a second as though he didn't recognize him. Draco wondered if the danger, whatever it was, had driven him into the back of his mind. He gave a tentative croon and opened his wings.

Potter _unfolded_.

The magic that came out of him was powerful enough to give Draco a headache, and as strong and uncontrolled as pain. It shoved Draco backwards, away from Potter, and pinned him against the wall at the furthest distance possible without going out the door, against one of the bookshelves. Draco tried to breathe and found that he couldn't, that the pressure lay like a huge brick on his chest.

He choked and reached out a pleading hand towards Potter. At least he still had the strength to do that.

Potter walked slowly towards him. He stopped perhaps a few feet away from Draco and looked at him. Draco felt the pressure on his chest ease at the same moment. He gasped out and opened his mouth, not sure what he would say, only knowing it was essential that he say something, that he try to answer his mate's questions, that he let Potter know he would be beloved and revered.

"I thought you knew," Potter said, voice as unpolished as lead. "I thought I made it perfectly clear that I _hate the thought of this._"

Draco stared at him, and said the first thing that came into his head, perhaps suggested by Granger's words. "But you agreed to live with me."

Potter laughed without sound, his lips parted and his teeth showing. It reminded Draco of the way the Dark Lord had sometimes laughed. He shuddered, but managed to look at his mate and not hide his face. That would only begin greater problems between them.

"I did what I had to do," said Potter, "to make the fewest compromises possible, to keep you out of interfering with my politics. I told your mother that, too. What do I care what my rooms look like? What do I care who I _have _to spend some of my time around? It would look bad for me if you died. It would waste people's time by making them write about that instead of about other things that would matter more. They're already writing those endless chattering newspaper articles about our 'bond.' What idiots. What fools. As if it _mattered_."

Draco struggled, trying to understand. He was still pressing against the magic that held him back, too, he realized, straining to reach Potter, who looked at him with alien eyes. "But—but you were—you put up with those articles—"

"I was angry about them," Potter said clearly. "But I spent the past three months hearing everybody in the Ministry and elsewhere tell me that I couldn't lose my temper with these people I'm trying to get to help me. They would get upset and leave. They would think I was ill-bred and leave. They would hate everything about me if I gave in to my temper. So I didn't. I think I got pretty good at it."

He took another step forwards, and Draco found himself flinching as if he was about to be struck, although rationally he knew Potter stood too far away from that.

"I thought I'd handle you the same way," Potter murmured. "Put up with what you demanded, because it couldn't touch the core of what's important. What's a demonstration of our bond? It could perhaps be important, but it's probably not going to be. And you ruined it by the way you flailed around and almost jumped on Daphne, anyway."

Draco screeched at the mention of Daphne's name. It was an instinctive response, and he wanted to say something about that when Potter's eyes pinned him again.

But it was rather hard when all the spit in his mouth had dried up at the sight of that green gaze.

"Fine," said Potter. "I need to tell you this? Then I'll tell you this. I would live with you and have sex with you and touch you because _that doesn't matter. _I won't stop going to meetings with Muggleborns or going outside the home or being with my friends because _that matters._ I can do what I have to do. I've done it for eighteen years."

Draco tried to say something. This time, it was utter incomprehension that stopped him.

Potter took another step towards him, and his eyes blazed bright. "But never think that it doesn't make me angry. It makes me _fucking furious_. I _hate _it. The same way I hated Voldemort being after me. But the times that I gave in to my temper and yelled and smashed things, it never made things any better. So I just learned to listen to people, and hold my tongue, and do politics."

He folded his arms and paced towards the door. "You're just politics, Malfoy. Except the least important political duty I have. So I'll go along with you and the stray thoughts I might have about things that could be good about this bond. I'll handle you like I handle this stupid scar and all the other liabilities."

He paused on the threshold of the library and glanced once at Draco. "But if you think I love you? _Wake the fuck up_."

He left, and so did the magic that had held Draco against the bookcase. He sagged to the floor, breathing and trying not to give in to the tears that wanted to crowd his eyes.

Granger said nothing, only gathered up her books and left. Draco folded himself into a small ball, his wings sheltering his eyes, and waited for the same self-destructive urge to come upon him that had when he was first refused by Potter.

But nothing happened. It took Draco a few minutes to understand the likely reason.

_ I would live with you and have sex with you and touch you because that doesn't matter._

His mate would touch him. His mate would live with him. The proper emotions…

Were apparently not a requirement, the way Draco had always learned.

He stayed a long time on the floor of the library, too stunned to feel anything else.


	8. Opportunities and Odd Qualities

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Eight—Opportunities and Odd Qualities_

"Where is my son?"

Harry took so long to drag his mind back from the speech he was writing that he wasn't surprised by the glare on Narcissa's face when he finally looked up.

Not that he could do anything about it. "He was in the library the last I knew," Harry said, and finished with the last line of the speech. Then he scanned it quickly. He thought it made sense. He was going to be part of a group of people celebrating the reopening of Hogwarts and the four-month anniversary of the war's ending. He thought that a few references to Dumbledore's tomb were okay, since that was what they were speaking in front of, but he didn't want to overdo it. Luckily, it didn't seem as if he would.

"That answer is not answer enough," Narcissa said, and put a hand on his desk.

Harry met her eyes without blinking. She was in his rooms, and he had thought that no one would simply stride in and interrupt him here. It showed how foolish he had been, he supposed. "That's where I left him. If he's not there, then I don't know where he is."

"I have just come from speaking with him." Narcissa's head was low, and she hissed at him like Nagini used to. "I know the way that you nearly destroyed him, nearly broke his heart."

"Then you know where he is, so why are you asking me?"

Narcissa's lips pursed, and her hand rose. Harry had his wand out in a flash. And that finally made her pause, and look at him as though considering her options.

"You would not dare to curse me," she said.

"You were moving like you were going to hit me."

She said nothing, but lowered her hand back to her side, observing him closely. "You know that you will have to endure a great deal in a Veela bond," she said.

"If he thinks he can abuse me and get away with it, then I'll disembowel him," Harry said, and thought it was the calmness of the threat rather than the threat itself that made Narcissa shrink, hands curled in front of her like the husks of butterflies, her eyes so bright and suspicious that Harry thought she might weep.

"It is not—abuse," said Narcissa at last. "But I know what you did to him in the library. He described it to me. He says that you do not want to be part of the bond at all, that you hate him. A Veela would prefer being disemboweled to hearing that."

"What do you want me to say?" Harry asked her. "That I welcomed him? No. I thought I was making myself clear enough by going along with everything _without enthusiasm_. Now I see I wasn't. I explained things to him. I don't think anything less clear would be accepted." He waited, saw her mouth open, and spoke before she could. "You were the one who gave me the clue that I had to, by telling me that this was like a marriage and Malfoy thought he was married to me already. Then I saw that I had to be clear."

"You were not clear. You were brutal."

"He thought I wanted him," Harry said. "That I was his submissive, that I was in love with him. Look. I'm making it clear now that this is political, and for his survival. He has to realize that I'm not the submissive he wants. I'll give him what I can without disrupting my other commitments."

"_This _should be the most important of your commitments."

"Let me tell you something," said Harry. He knew from the slight narrowing of her eyes that he had thrown her off, but he proceeded before she could say something. "I'm selfish. I'm not the great hero that people think I am. I'm not ready to give my life for the world again."

"It sounded as though you were unselfish enough to consider my son's needs," said Narcissa slowly. Harry knew she was turning the words every direction in her mind, finding ways to interpret them that were favorable to what she and Malfoy wanted.

"I'm selfish because I never want to fight a war again." Harry thought it was probably safe to move his hand away from his wand. Probably. "I'll give everything else up, sacrifice everything else, for the chance to live in a world at peace. Malfoy might be able to help me with that. He's already promised some ways he could. So he's part of it, and I'll make the sacrifices needed to keep him happy."

Narcissa was looking sick, but Harry didn't know why until she almost whispered the words. "No submissive would wish to do that. Privacy—privacy is their home and their heart and their desire."

Harry shrugged. "I understand that. But I'm not a submissive."

"Draco is a dominant. There is nothing else you can be."

Harry wanted to say how much he despised that notion, that only certain things existed and there was no other way for things to be. For the Dursleys, you were normal or a freak. You weren't a kid terrified out of his wits by the strange things he could do and not understanding anything until your eleventh birthday. He had thought wizards would be better than Muggles about that, but he should have known better. People were people.

"I can apologize to Malfoy. But it won't be the truth, and I think he'd be able to tell that."

"Yes, he knows when you lie."

_Then how did he mistake what we had so far for enthusiastic consent? _But Harry thought he probably did know. Malfoy was so proud of his heritage and so sure that anyone else would be thrilled to be part of it, too, that he'd neglected to really pay _close _attention to the emotions that surged between them. Harry thought he would now.

"Then I can't apologize," said Harry. He laid his hands flat on top of the table, so Narcissa could see there was nothing in them, no weapon or threat. "I explained my position, and I think he understands it."

Narcissa looked him in the face the way Harry thought she would probably look at the sun, not caring for what it could do to her. "I shall never forgive you for what you have done to Draco. Not if you live a hundred years."

"Don't worry, I won't. I'll almost certainly be killed in pursuit of the peace process."

Narcissa did some more staring, her face gone smooth and metallic again. Then she whirled and strode towards the door of the bedroom. Harry watched her until it shut, and then went back to studying his speech again.

* * *

"Draco? Are you well?"

Draco nodded slowly. He was standing in the middle of his bedroom, flexing his wings, and wondering why it felt as though he was moving them against an invisible net that was closing in from beside him and above. At least he could flap them altogether. That was better than the loss of them.

He had been almost convinced he would lose them after what Potter had said.

He flinched from the memory, and turned towards his mother with a faint smile. It vanished when he saw the way she stood in the doorway with one hand on the frame and watched him. He swallowed and shrugged. "Potter. He—told you something about leaving the house?" It made the most sense, after what he had shouted at Draco.

"No," said Narcissa. "He told me that he continues to regard you as one of his commitments, but he will do everything in the name of the peace process."

"I—understand that now, I think," said Draco. His words came out sore and slow, as though his mouth was the part of him most bruised by Potter, instead of his heart. "He thinks that I'm someone else he needs to serve." That word felt the strangest of all on his tongue. A month ago, when he had first begun to understand that Potter was his mate, he would have been thrilled by the sound of it. Submissive mates served their dominants out of love, and the dominants accepted out of love.

But that was before Draco had understood what Potter meant by service.

Thinking about it, he supposed, it should have been obvious. Potter didn't throw himself at the feet of people in the school and beg to help them. What he did was something like throwing his life in front of the Dark Lord's wand and dying if he needed to. Draco didn't understand all the details about why he had survived, but he knew one thing. Potter had gone into the Forest expecting to die.

Draco couldn't comprehend it. To die for one person, yes, he could do that, he would die for his submissive. Or his family. But not so many people. Not a world, a huge abstraction that didn't have any way to love you back.

"Potter's service is self-immolation," Draco told his mother, because she was still staring at him, and her silence waited. "He doesn't hold back. He doesn't much care who he hurts, either, I think."

"He said something about being selfish, and devoting his life to making sure that he never has to fight another war."

"I can see that." Draco moved his hand down and touched the scars on his chest. Could even that be part of the reason Potter was doing this? he wondered. Were those part of the sacrifice? He felt sorry for scarring Draco, so he would go as far as sleeping with him and doing a few other things, but nothing else?

Then Draco reached out and touched the tentative connection that was forming between him and his mate, and winced, shaking his head. No, he didn't think so—hadn't thought so. The sheer congealing _throb _of his mate's emotions was all spiky, and regret was part of them, but not guilt. Potter seemed to have shed guilt.

_Except how what he's doing has guilt written all over it._

Draco nodded as he thought about that. How many lives did Potter regret not saving? How many nightmares tormented him?

_He thinks that I'm one more person he has to do something to placate. Like the pure-bloods that he's meeting with, or the Muggleborns. What I want from him is—_

Draco closed his eyes. A hurricane of emotions and emotional colors wanted to overwhelm him, and he wanted to blurt out how different it was and then go flying and find Potter, right now.

But his mother knew how different it was, or should be, and she wasn't the one that he needed to convince.

"I don't know what to do," he whispered. "I understand now, but I need more. I always did." His mother didn't ask him to explain that, and Draco was glad, because his words had more than a few implications that he wasn't proud of. "I can't just go along and take this loveless bond that he wants to offer me because it would be more _convenient_."

"Of course not," said Narcissa. "I told him that. His only response was telling me that he expected his life to be consumed in the service of the peace process and to imply that he didn't have time to think about anything else."

"Did he hope to get married, then?" Draco wished now that he had let Potter keep speaking about Weasley's sister when he'd had the chance. He wanted to grow claws at the mere thought of her being near his mate, but he had no idea what Potter really wanted. "Who was he going to look for? A politician's wife?" _Daphne?_

"He said nothing about it. I do not know." Draco finally opened his eyes, and saw his mother standing by his bedroom window, looking at the ground far below and frowning. "I do not think that he knows properly, himself. This is something he is so committed to that it seems to have swallowed everything else…"

Draco sighed. "That's the main problem, then."

"His political commitments? That he will not value you over them?" His mother gazed at him curiously over her shoulder. "I thought you knew that already."

"Not that," Draco said. It was hard to admit this, hard and his throat was lined with acid and his tongue had a bit on it, but he did it anyway. "That—I wanted him to love me like that, to the exclusion of all else, to swallow everything else, and I had a rival that I never even suspected."

"You _should _have had that," said Narcissa. "I do not know what the destiny in charge of giving mates to Veela is, or exactly what it does. But you need someone to take care of you, and that is not what you received. I am angry."

"What?" Draco whispered.

"I was expressing—"

"No." Draco had to sit down, the way he'd had to for almost three hours after what Potter had shouted at him. "You thought I needed someone to take care of me? But it's the dominant who takes care of the submissive. Why would you—did you really expect me to be a dominant, Mother?"

"If it comes to that," his mother said, clasping her hands precisely in front of her the way Draco sometimes remembered her doing when talking with his father, "I was not sure. But no one is perfectly sure when the destiny makes the choice, the way that you did not know who your mate would be until then."

"No," said Draco. "No. I don't need someone to take care of me. I need someone to love me, to—follow me the way a submissive follows a dominant, but I didn't need someone to take care of me."

"You need someone who would enjoy following you," said his mother. "Part of that following includes caretaking. Defense of your emotions, not butchering them the way Potter has done. The desire to protect you, not be the one to wound you, as Potter has done. The desire to—"

"That's what a _dominant _is supposed to do for a _submissive_," Draco said, stunned that he had to say this to her, when she had grown up with the same rules he had, when she had been the one who _taught _him most of those rules. "To make them feel comfortable, and loved, and safe. To defend them from danger."

His mother said nothing.

"The submissive loves the dominant, of course. Stays safe, and does what he's told to, and cares for the children, and keeps the dominant's heart safe by keeping himself safe."

The words were so much wind blown down a long tunnel, from the silence that his mother was preserving. Draco moved in a mad rush. "Are you disappointed that I grew wings and turned out to be the dominant? Because you know no submissive has wings." They didn't need them, when they had someone to pick them up and fly them. But the wings were simply a visible indicator of prestige and power, not the only benefit. What really separated submissives and dominants were their attitudes.

"I am not disappointed," his mother said, and knelt down in front of him with a rustling of her robes. "I may question the choices or the fates or the forces that led you to become so, but I am not disappointed."

That loosened one string binding Draco's chest, at least. He cleaned his lungs out with a few deep gulps and murmured, "I need to find some way past this obstacle. If Potter can treat me as an obstacle, I can do the same thing with his bloody political commitments."

His mother lifted one swiftly protesting hand. Draco glanced at her. "Yes?"

"You say that he prefers self-immolation. I do not want you to be burned along with him."

Draco shook his head. "One of my goals is to keep him from getting burned, or from dying in the political process, or committing suicide, or whatever it is he thinks he's doing by dumping his entire life into negotiations."

His mother gave him a faint smile and shook her head. "What can you do, my dear?" she murmured. "He wants to do this, he will do it."

"But _I _want _him_," Draco said, and sat up more strongly. "What I need to do is figure out how to make him see that I could help. Or that I'm desirable." It was humiliating to say that, when a dominant Veela should be desired by his submissive simply in the course of reality, but he said it, and knew from his mother's nod that she approved.

"If you need him to exist, of course you need to try and reclaim him from this suicidal course," she said. "The only thing is that I do not see how you can, without flying close enough to singe your wings."

"There's one thing I can do," Draco said, and stood up with his back aching and his throat feeling now as though someone had stuck a hand down it. "Only a first step, but it might make Po—Harry see that I mean business, if I came up with it on my own." He should be calling his mate by his first name, not his last name, no matter how alienated it made him feel that Harry persisted in addressing him as "Malfoy."

"What is that?" his mother asked.

"Apologize for attacking Daphne," Draco said. "And see if that—changes his opinion at all of me."


	9. Wings and Words

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_Chapter Nine—Wings and Words_

Draco cleared his throat twice before Harry started out of his deep staring at the speech and turned to look at him.

He looked beautiful like that, framed against the light of the enchanted window that looked out over a deep expanse of sea. Draco felt a tug at his heart, an ache, as though someone had reached in, and wrapped their fingers around strings there, and pulled.

He approached Harry with his head low, his wings spread, the kind of posture that a dominant Veela would adopt after he had angered his submissive over something not worth fighting about. He came to an uncertain stop when Harry just watched him, nodding a little. He was neither welcoming nor unwelcoming.

"Did you need me to touch you again?" Harry asked.

_So direct, _Draco thought. That was like the Potter—the Harry—that he remembered in school, except different somehow. Then he would just blurt things out and Draco could decide how to respond. Now there was one possibility left open to him, and if it wasn't the one Harry decided it should be, Draco would scrabble against the wall in vain.

_When in doubt, go over the wall. _"No," Draco said. "I came to apologize."

That at least made Harry blink and look at him instead of faraway political horizons. "For what?"

Draco paused again. He had thought Harry was likely to want, even to demand, an apology for acting the way Draco had towards Daphne. He didn't know what else he would want, if not that.

"The way I acted around Daphne," Draco said, and then something that was instinct-like if not actually instinct clogged up his throat. He coughed and continued. "I just—I need to know if you _do _want to sleep with her."

He spoke the words, instead of snarled them, and didn't lash out and claw someone else's head off. Honestly, Draco was impressed with himself.

"No," said Harry, and glanced back at the parchment in his hands, sighing a little. "Was that all you needed to hear?"

"_No_," Draco snapped, having no idea why Harry was so bloody annoying. He couldn't extend even a little of that compassion that was driving him to save the world to pay attention to Draco? "I want to know why you don't want to sleep with her, and why you stopped me from attacking her if you don't care about her."

"Wanting to sleep with someone isn't the same as caring about them," Harry said, and put the parchment he held down on the desk and turned his full attention to Draco. Draco silently reveled in that even as he swallowed a little at the way Harry's eyes narrowed. "And I can care that she's alive without wanting to sleep with her."

"You don't want her? In any way?" In truth, Draco thought he would have sensed the desire before now if Harry felt it, but their bond was so damaged that it was hard to be certain.

"No."

"Why not?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I already told you why."

"You told me why you wanted her alive," Draco said, and took another sliding step forwards. Harry only watched him without pushing magic at him the way he had before. Draco decided he could take some comfort from that. "That's not the same thing as saying why you don't want to sleep with her."

Harry glanced away from Draco and out the window. The bond was like a crystal ball that someone had filled with grey water, for all the sense Draco could make out of the swimming patterns in the middle of it.

"I don't think that romance is going to be an important part of my life," Harry said. "Not the life I chose for myself. Maybe the life that I would have lived if I wasn't part of the war and all the rest of it." He shrugged. "But not this one."

Draco jerked to a halt. "So that's why you aren't that worried at the idea of sleeping with me," he said. "Because you don't care about sleeping with someone else."

Harry's eyes came slowly back to him. "Not much."

"How can you—how can you _not_?" Draco held out one hand, his claws curving up from it. They looked like blades of grass at the moment, no more harmful. He would attack whatever enemy was causing Harry to feel this way, but he thought it must be intangible. "It's the best thing in life, to be at the heart and center of someone's desire that way."

"Not really," said Harry, and he was smiling in a way that emphasized his teeth and the corners of his face. If Draco hadn't known better, he would have thought he was looking at the face of another Veela, someone in full attack mode. "I've _been _desired. At the heart and the center of attention, for a long while. I don't look forward to it anymore."

"But you have to realize that doing something like this is going to put you even more at the center of everyone's attention," Draco said, the only argument he could think of.

"Doing what? Politics? Trying to stop another war?" Harry shrugged as if the notion didn't interest him. "Yes, I know. But as I told your mother, I'm selfish. I'm doing this so that _I _don't have to fight another war. And I don't care if I make myself desirable or likeable to anyone right now. I'll do this on my own terms."

"People have to like you to listen to you, to want to stop short of open warfare." Draco thought they were speaking two different languages. Harry was on the other side of his desk, and it was like being on the other side of the desk from a professor.

Harry half-shrugged. "Oh, sure. But it's still for a purpose. They're not admiring me just to admire me anymore. I can take charge of that attention and manipulate it. I just don't want it focused on me uselessly, with people expecting me to bask in it." He passed a hand briefly in front of his eyes, as if they stung. "I'm so _tired _of the basking."

"How much of it did you actually do?" Draco's intention to apologize had vanished along with the apology itself. He didn't know how well he could pick his way along and whether this was something he _should _do. All he knew was that he and Harry were in the same room and conversing like human beings at the moment.

Not like a Veela and his mate. That was still the painful part to Draco. And there were things that he didn't understand and thought Harry was deliberately obscuring. But this was still a better beginning than he'd anticipated.

"Basking? Not much, I suppose." Harry shrugged and shuffled through some more sheets of his parchment. "I couldn't have been what they wanted me to be. Not at first. I'm trying now, but even then, some people would prefer for me to be motionless on the pedestal, not running around and actually doing things."

Draco blurted out the first thing that came to him, maybe because of a reluctant swirl of colors in his mind. "Is that what you think I want? For you to be motionless on the pedestal?"

Harry paused and looked up at him. Draco snapped his wings open and shut in agitation. He didn't want to startle Harry, or really remind him that Draco wasn't human, but he couldn't help himself.

* * *

_At least he managed to put it in words that we could both understand._

Harry was holding himself ready, the way he always did when he was in public these days. Ready to move, ready to use his magic if he had to, ready to use words if he had to. He couldn't negotiate with Malfoy the way he could with Muggleborns or pure-bloods like the Greengrasses—

_Assuming the Greengrasses will ever trust me again._

But he thought he might be able to negotiate a different way. These new words suggested it.

"Yes," Harry said at last.

Malfoy shook his head, smiling at him sweetly, so sweetly. Harry wondered what kind of mate that would have worked on. Only the traditional ones, or was Ron right that lots of people would think it was an honor to be looked at like that, desired like that?

_But I've had lots of people look at me like that. _And they had never seen him. Only the Heir of Slytherin and the Boy-Who-Lived and the perfect boyfriend and the hero who would save them and the enemy who it was okay to hate because he represented everything they despised. The only difference now was that Harry acknowledged he couldn't stop people from looking at him that way, any more than he could ever have a normal life, so he was happy to use those impressions for a greater struggle.

"I would never require perfection of you," Malfoy began.

He had to stop, because of the laughter choking out of Harry.

Harry raised his hand to his mouth, shutting off the laughter. He hadn't even meant to do that. He felt a little guilty, though that was because he hadn't _planned _the stricken expression on Malfoy's face. If he was going to cause pain, it had better be for a good reason, and something he could use later on.

"You're shitting me," Harry said, because he had to, because the laughter had started him down that path. "You wouldn't require me to be the perfect submissive you were talking about when you came to 'claim' me in the Ministry? You wouldn't want me bowing to you and waiting on you and falling helpless at your feet with desire? _Really_?"

Malfoy blinked and blinked again. At least the stricken expression had disappeared. Now he just looked puzzled.

"That's not something most submissives ever have to worry about," he whispered at last. "They know everything they have to do by instinct."

"Really." Harry propped his elbow on his desk and his chin on his fist, so he could look at Malfoy. "And I don't. _Now _do you see why I'm going along with this as much as I have to, and no more than that?"

"No."

Harry rolled his eyes and replied as calmly as he could, "Because I haven't the slightest fucking clue what these instincts are, and why it feels good, and why I should go along with them. Because I didn't grow up with this kind of tradition, and no one ever bothered to explain it."

"I could teach you," said Malfoy, and then held a hand up and examined it if as if he was waiting for the claws to disappear.

Harry eyed him for a second. "What would you know about it, though? You said that this is part of instinct, and you either have the instincts or you don't. I do think this is a shitty situation, for both of us, but I don't see how you can teach me anything based on instincts that you don't have."

"I mean, I can tell you about the traditions." Malfoy passed his hand over his hair for a second. The claws flickered and disappeared. Harry was just as glad that Malfoy and not him was the one who was part-Veela. He would hate being stuck with weapons you couldn't rely on for the rest of his life. "And—do you have dominant instincts?"

He sounded as though he was dreading the reply, but Harry leaned forwards and replied, "No. I don't have any sort of instincts."

Once again, Malfoy paused, and his eyes were so uncertain. Harry wondered why. As far as he was concerned, he had proposed a reasonable compromise. After all, it wasn't as though he was going to date anyone or sleep with anyone else, and put their bond in jeopardy. He just didn't have _time _for that shit. Maybe he could learn the traditions and that would be enough.

"But you have to have one set," Malfoy said. He twitched for a second as though someone was pulling on his wings, then set his jaw and continued. "My mother told me that she thought I might be the submissive. Even with the wings. Then it would make sense that you would take over the role of the dominant."

"Do you want to know what I think?" Harry had checked on his watch while Malfoy was rambling on. He had seven minutes before he had to Floo. He thought that might be enough time to make it clear to Malfoy what he was dealing with here.

"Yes," said Malfoy, and his voice was so desperate and his eyes were so hopeful.

Harry experienced a familiar sinking sensation in the center of his chest. It was the same one he'd got when he realized that a lot of people were still depending on him to save the world after the war, to guide them into peace and happily ever after. No matter where he went, he couldn't escape those expectations. At least he had learned to embrace them on his own terms.

He didn't understand why Malfoy was different, why he couldn't embrace _those _requirements on his own terms.

"I think the whole idea is mental," said Harry. "Let's assume for a second that this is a loving relationship. You did say that love is part of the arrangement?"

"For the dominant and the submissive both." Malfoy sounded firmer when he was discussing something he absolutely knew. Harry thought that was good. It meant he felt less sorry for the poor bastard.

"Then I'd think that two people who love each other wouldn't just do the same thing all the time," said Harry. "I mean, sometimes they would. But sometimes one of them would make love to the other person, and sometimes one of them would cook dinner—"

"I told you, you won't have to do chores like that. That's why I have house-elves."

"Do you want to know what I think or not?" Harry snapped, with another sideways glance at his watch. _Five minutes._

"Yes," Malfoy said, and his wings drooped a little.

Harry sighed. "Sorry for snapping at you." At least that brought the wings back up, and relieved a little of his guilt. "My point is, I think that people who are in a marriage with each other, or love relationship, or _whatever _this is supposed to be, would do different things. It would depend on how much they loved each other, and who was tired, and whether someone wanted to be quiet that night or talk a lot, and whether they both wanted to sleep together or not. How comfortable they were around each other. How big their house was."

"Yes?" Malfoy's face had gone polite and smooth the way Harry had sometimes seen it when he was speaking to professors at Hogwarts.

"Oh, for _fuck's _sake," Harry said. _Three minutes_. "_Listen_. I can't have a normal relationship, I accept that, there's too much going on, but if I could that's what I'd want. Not one where things are the same all the time. Not one where someone was always commanding and always protecting and the other person lay back and massaged their feet. Or got their feet massaged," he added, because Malfoy was opening his mouth again, probably with another advertisement for the services of his house-elves. "I don't _care_ about being dominant or submissive. I'm neither because I reject your whole crazy system. I stand outside it, and I'm going to go on standing outside it."

"Even if you sleep with me?" Malfoy's wings quivered again.

_Why is that so important to him? _Yes, it had felt nice when Harry was able to kiss Ginny, and maybe it would even feel nice when he kissed Malfoy. But there were more important things than who was sleeping with whom. The _Prophet _and its constant stories about him had dulled any appeal gossip like that had for Harry, and some people's obsession with it had dulled for him as well.

"I'll do what I need to do to make sure that you're all right," Harry said. "That doesn't mean I'm going to enjoy sex the way I suppose a submissive would."

Malfoy shook his head. "But when Veela mate—"

"I know it's usually different," Harry interrupted, and gathered up his parchments. _Thirty seconds. _"But you usually get a pure-blood who's been raised in the wizarding world or at least has some idea it exists before they're eleven. This time, you got a half-blood. Sorry. And I have to _go _or I'll be late to deliver this speech."

"That's the worst fate you can think of?"

"No, war is the worst fate I can think of," Harry snapped at him, and began to bustle towards the stairs. "And sometimes Kingsley hints that wars could start over the color of my robes, so my being late would really give them a reason."

"I can fly you down the stairs," Malfoy offered, spreading his wings. "And that way, you'll probably arrive on time."

Harry wanted to think about it, but there was no time to think about it. It seemed like there were no time for anything these days, except frantic work. "Sure," he said, and extended a hand, thinking Malfoy would snatch it and whirl him into the air, like Side-Along Apparition except a longer distance.

Instead, Malfoy picked him up, cradling him close. His breath was warm in Harry's ear, and his wings unfolded and they rose into the air with a powerful but gentle bound, as though they had floated off a cloud, and landed next to the Floo in the nearest sitting room at the bottom of the stairs. Harry hadn't actually noticed them swooping through the doorway of that room, so swift and soft had it been.

He blinked, nodded to find his feet on the floor, said, "Thanks, Malfoy," and tossed in the Floo powder.

Malfoy came with him, holding his wings carefully to his sides and away from the sides of the fireplace. He didn't try to touch Harry other than the necessary pressing when they stumbled out of the Floo together, though. Harry found himself relaxing.

_Maybe he's thinking about this and why I don't fit in, a little. Maybe he is._


	10. Speeches and Spectators

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_Chapter Ten—Speeches and Spectators_

"Thank you for coming here today."

Draco spread his wings involuntarily as he saw glances traveling towards him. Yes, he understood that they were surprised to see him here; there were probably people who hadn't heard about Harry's Veela bond, and others who were surprised that a dominant had let his submissive appear in public at all, and some who wanted to sneer at him. But he only wished they would stop _staring _so much. They had seen now, there was no reason to go on thinking that Harry was alone or unmated, could they stop looking at him?

Of course, there were also people he wished would stop looking at Harry. Daphne Greengrass was in the front row of chairs before the little stage set up in front of Dumbledore's tomb, which still loomed, huge and white, behind them. Daphne might have been looking at a patch of blank air instead of Draco, but Harry also might have been a blazing comet.

Draco shifted in his chair. He, Granger, Weasley, Shacklebolt, and several Ministry officials Draco didn't recognize had seats behind Harry. Draco had looked around for a chair Harry could use, and didn't find one.

He turned back to Daphne. There was no doubt that it was deliberate, now. Before, she might have wanted Harry without knowing he had a Veela mate, since Harry hadn't known it himself. But this was a pointed insult. A biting insult.

Draco showed his teeth, the one concession to instinct he could make in front of an audience, and got ready to spread his wings if she kept on. At least Harry wasn't far from him, and his voice was calm and measured, and Draco could sweep him off his feet and carry him away if she tried anything.

"I know that the man buried behind me would rejoice to see the first motions towards peace we're making." The day was overcast, humid, and Harry looked like the brightest thing in the world as he slowly looked around. He wore a set of green robes Draco had to grudgingly admit looked nice, although he would have prepared to dress Harry with his own hands. "He trusted a man who had the Dark Mark on his arm to murder him, and play a long game. He trusted someone who had a connection with Voldemort to walk into the Forest and sacrifice himself. You could say he made mistakes, not enough contingency plans, too many opportunities for things to go wrong."

Harry paused, and rifled his papers. Draco wondered if he was the only one who saw the taut muscles in his mate's back and neck, if he was the only one who knew what that _meant_.

"But I say, that's what trust is." Harry's voice was muffled. He craned his neck around to look at the tomb, and Draco blinked. The expression on Harry's face didn't match the deep, reluctant emotions that Draco could feel crawling down the bond towards him. "To reach out and tap people on the shoulder and ask them to join with you in some grand enterprise, without the ability to force them."

Draco's wings twitched again. What Dumbledore had done, as far as relying on Harry, went a lot further than _trusting _him.

But those were things to argue about later. Draco wanted to prove that he could be a political asset, if politically was the way that Harry meant to deal with him. So he sat still, and only his hands driving into the chair might have told someone what he was feeling.

From the gleam in her focused eyes, they told Daphne.

"He trusted me," Harry continued, and he leaned forwards, as if he had wings of his own to spread that would let him loom over the audience. "He wanted me to do as he'd asked, but he couldn't make me. Well, I can't make you, either." His gaze was fastened on the enthralled audience, and Draco thought he could have asked them to charge the Ministry en masse and they would have done it. "But I can _ask _that you consider peace, that you ask yourself whether being able to live ordinary lives in the wizarding world is really worth less than what you might believe about blood purity."

The words were ordinary, the moment not so. Draco could feel it trembling like a soap bubble, shimmering with tension and beauty, and he didn't think it was only his mate bond with Harry that made him feel that way.

Harry stepped back and popped the bubble himself, with a soft smile that Draco could feel the effect of even though he wasn't seeing it full on. "That's what this is all about. I've had some people tell me that I could command people to stop fighting, and they would listen to me. Or I could command them to start being nice to werewolves, or listen to the Ministry and let them mediate disputes instead of turning them into duels, or I could tell them to free house-elves." Draco didn't think he mistook the flickering glance Harry turned towards Granger. "But it doesn't work like that. What I want is for people to do this of their own free will."

He spread his hands. "You don't have to do it for really good reasons. I'm doing this because I'm so selfish that I never want to fight another war."

A few other people in the audience laughed, although not Daphne, who was leaning forwards with her hands folded as though in prayer. Draco shook his head. Harry was telling them everything they wanted to hear, sure, but also the truth. He wondered idly who was going to get into trouble for ignoring it.

_Daphne. _She was already in trouble with Draco himself, but Draco doubted that she would have got any satisfaction out of Harry even if he wasn't Draco's mate.

(And he was doing well, he knew he was, by being able to think about the political implications without trying to rip her apart).

Harry didn't want someone who wanted the Chosen One. He might accept someone who offered a partnership to the political man—Draco was rather counting on that—but that would always stop short of that person becoming besotted with him.

"Your own free will," Harry said again, snapping Draco's attention back to him. Once he was looking at him again, Draco wondered why in the world he had ever wanted to look away. Harry was beautiful in everything, from the line of the arm he raised to the pure and unwavering way he met the eyes of the people looking at him. "That's what's most important here. More important than _anything _else. What matters is that you commit yourselves to this fully, if you do."

"Not all of us can be crusaders like you are, Harry," said Kingsley Shacklebolt, standing up and giving a little bow to Harry. Draco started a snarl, but from the way Harry turned around and smiled, this interruption was totally planned.

"I know that, but you can decide that your ordinary lives are worth more than any temporary satisfaction you might get out of killing your enemies," Harry said, and turned back to sweep the crowd with his gaze. "Think about it. What would have happened if the war had continued, or if Voldemort had won it?" Some people still flinched at the name, but not as many as Draco would have thought, so enraptured were they. "Could you have continued going shopping in Diagon Alley and feuding with your neighbors and complaining about the Ministry and raising your children and sending them to Hogwarts?"

Draco could feel the mental recalibration in some of the audience. That was clever, he had to admit, to make them think about it that way, not in terms of the great abstractions they would have lost, but the general activities, the small things that actually made up their lives.

"That's right," Harry said, and made a sweep in front of him as though he was splashing water away. "He would have changed _everything, _because he couldn't stand not being worshiped and the center of his followers' lives. He probably would have exiled all the half-bloods from Hogwarts, Marked the pure-blood children at sixteen, and driven the Muggleborns into hiding. He'd already taken over the Ministry. And he wouldn't have been content with the British wizarding world, either. He would have insisted on conquering other countries and taking over the Muggle political scene." This time, the gesture he made was of dumping water on top of something. "Nothing ever satisfied him. You would have spent your lives in service to him, and wondered how it happened this way."

The audience nodded again. Draco looked around at them, forcing his gaze away from Harry and then from Daphne, and realized something that made him open his mouth, then close it again. He wasn't about to interrupt Harry's moment.

Harry might think he was getting through to them with his speech. In a way, he was. He was at least making them rethink the desirability of war. But dozens of the people here, if not the majority, would change their minds because it was Harry Potter asking them to.

Not because they really believed in what he was saying.

Draco raised a hand to his mouth so that he could muffle some of the squeaks that wanted to escape. He would look undignified, sitting there and fighting back silly noises while Harry wrapped up his triumphant speech.

But that was real. It was _true. _Harry thought he could persuade everyone to do what he wanted and leave them absolutely free to make the decision. And it was true that he sounded more rational than Draco had thought he would, not using as many emotional appeals or the plain, blunt demand that they agree with him that most Gryffindors would have.

It was impossible to leave people completely free when you had the degree of fame and power that Harry did, though. (And Draco would probably add his beauty to that). Daphne wanted him even though Harry didn't want her to.

(Draco stripped off a few bits of wood from the chair).

There would always be someone who did what they did because they dreamed of Harry's approval, dreamed of meeting him and seeing that smile. Draco wondered if Harry had any idea that most of those shining eyes in the audience didn't shine because of the peace he was preaching, but just because of _him_.

"So," Harry finished, and flung out an arm so that he was pointing to the tomb behind them. "Pay attention to the sacrifice that Dumbledore made for us. _Please. _He was the major one who stood against Voldemort. Not me. He was the one who organized the Order of the Phoenix and fought a whole war before I was even born. And he was the one who achieved the victory in the end, even though he had to take risks to do it."

_He played with your life to do it, _Draco thought, his own thoughts clear enough to make him start, because Veela normally didn't think that way in opposition to their mates. _And Professor Snape's life. Even if you can forgive him, have you asked Snape's portrait if he could? _

"So let's celebrate what he did, what he stood for." Harry lifted his head, as if looking straight up to the sun hidden behind the clouds. "The peace that he would have wanted, and the chance to let everyone make their own choices. He did what he had to do during the war, and so did I. But ideally, no one will ever again have to make the choice to walk into the Forbidden Forest and stand there in front of a Killing Curse. Let's—let's try and make sure that we preserve that freedom for other people, too."

His voice caught on the last words, and several people rose to their feet, applauding. Draco shook his head. Harry was incredible, but more in his presence and his deeds than his words. He could probably be an exceptional speechmaker someday, but right now, he wasn't.

Harry, though, stood there and accepted their tribute as the tribute to his words, and probably to what he thought were Dumbledore's ideals. Draco didn't need their bond to know that, although the bond leaped and thrummed with enough thoughts that he knew it with the greater clarity.

Draco was proud of Harry, though, for being so understandable—Draco understood him better than he had only a few minutes ago—and for being so humble. He said that he didn't have the instincts of a submissive Veela mate, but Draco thought he did, kind of. They were simply turned sideways. Instead of being humble and grateful for the protection of a dominant against a harsh world, Harry was humble about achieving great things.

Draco thought he would grow used to it, and understand it, in time.

People were coming forwards to ask questions and tell Harry what a great speech he'd made. Draco kept himself sitting there, relaxed. None of them seemed to be a threat to Harry.

And then Daphne climbed up on stage.

* * *

Harry tensed the minute he saw Daphne coming. He had been thinking about the speech, which seemed to be a successful one, and he thought he might have reached some of the people who had been the most stubborn about listening to him before. They were certainly coming up to shake his hand and ask questions about how they could help with the peace process.

And then someone he had thought was an ally, and now had to accept had probably just pretended to ally with him in order to get into his pants, was right there, smiling sweetly into his eyes.

"No," Harry said to her, instinctively. He thought it was the only thing that might have made her pause in the way she reached out to him.

"Has the Veela got hold of you so quickly, Harry?" Daphne looked past him. Harry didn't have to turn to know that Malfoy was coming out of his chair; he could see the shadow of those wings moving on the stage. "I thought you were resisting him. That you had something less than desire for him."

"It has nothing to do with me wanting him, and everything to do with the fact that you provoked him on purpose."

That made Daphne turn back to him, a new look in her eyes. Harry half-nodded. Yes, she had thought he wouldn't catch that. She had underestimated him.

Lots of people did that, but then again, they tended to be Death Eaters and Dark Lords. Harry didn't want to think about Daphne inside either rank.

"I didn't," Daphne said, but even if Harry had believed her before, he thought he would have laughed now at the lame way she said it.

"Yes, you did," Harry said. "There's no way that you didn't know what a dominant Veela looked like, as a pure-blood." He moved back a step from her, not because he thought she would try to touch him again, but because he could hear Malfoy standing. He didn't want any casualties there, the same way he didn't want allies who lied to him. "And if you want me, then you were lying about your primary motive for being in the alliance. If you provoked him for another reason, then you were lying about wanting peace. You could have got someone _killed_."

Daphne just stared and stared. Harry was starting to hope that she hadn't been trying to seduce him after all. Why would she want a _stupid _husband?

"I lied about neither," Daphne finally murmured. Malfoy was right behind Harry now. Harry could feel the brush of a wing against his shoulder. He still didn't turn around, because he couldn't see the need. "I—Harry, the only thing that I want is you, at my side. And then together we can turn the wizarding world around."

"I don't want to turn the wizarding world around on anything except the issue of peace," Harry said tiredly. _This is always the way it is. Except with Ron and Hermione. _So many people who turned out to only want to use him. Malfoy might put himself in a different category, but the way he had described the bond he wanted to Harry, it was the same thing again. At least he was being quiet about it right now, though, and not tearing Daphne to small and screaming shreds.

"That embraces everything else."

Malfoy tried to lunge. It was probably the word "embraces," Harry thought.

Harry leaned backwards and cast a Shield Charm at the same time. The Shield Charm shut off that part of the stage from Malfoy's reach, and Harry nearly fell until Malfoy turned and caught him. Harry had hoped that would happen, that Malfoy's supposed instincts would push him to protect his mate before anything else. If Harry had to live with this bond he didn't want, then he was going to use it just like he used his fame.

"It doesn't," he told Daphne, and turned to Malfoy. "Do you want to go home now?" Diverting Malfoy's heavy-lidded attention from Daphne was a good thing, he thought.

Malfoy's response was a noise that reminded Harry a lot of Dudley. Harry sighed and stepped backwards, away from Daphne, softly crowding Malfoy back from the Shield Charm.

"She wants you," Malfoy whispered into the back of his neck, which at least meant it wasn't aloud, and therefore embarrassing.

Harry only nodded. It wasn't something he could dispute when he had the evidence living and breathing right in front of him.

Even if he would have _liked _to dispute it, because he had wanted to think that things had changed. But it was better to accept bitter reality and work with it than hope for too long.

"You won't let me destroy her?"

Harry shook his head sharply. No matter what Malfoy thought, Harry still had a political life. He would accept the bond with Malfoy because it was there and it existed. But he wouldn't let him commit murder. There was _some _way that someone would take this and twist it around to blame Harry. The Greengrass family, if no one else.

One of the things that Harry had had to give up was revenge, at least for personal reasons.

"Then let's go," Malfoy said, and wrapped his arms around Harry, and spread his wings.

This time, he seemed to spring straight off the stage. Harry leaned back in his embrace, for a second tightening the hold of his hands on Malfoy's arms. He wanted to fly under his own power, he wanted to be on a broom, he had to wonder what the people watching from the crowd would say if they saw them—

But then they were soaring, passing as fast as a shadow over the ground, over any and all obstacles, and it was wonderful enough to choke off some of his objections.

Malfoy sighed and nuzzled into his shoulder. Harry reckoned that he could feel Harry's relaxation and was letting him have some thanks for it.

Harry said nothing. There wasn't much to be said right now. But he gave Malfoy his relaxation the way Malfoy had given him his acceptance of not killing Daphne, and they flew back to the Manor at least in companionable silence, if nothing more.


	11. Interviews and Introductions

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Eleven—Interviews and Introductions _

Narcissa stood up briskly when they came through the Floo and spoke to Malfoy, as far as Harry could tell. "There's someone I would like you to meet."

"Not someone who you want to be another mate for me," said Malfoy, and his hand seemed to grow heavier on Harry's shoulder. Harry didn't know how he was doing that, when his hand was already resting there, but that was the way it felt. "I have all the mates I want right now." A second later, he settled his chin on Harry's free shoulder.

Harry stood still under it. He couldn't say that he was resigned to being the submissive mate Malfoy wanted, but on the other hand, he had no reason to please Narcissa either, with her cool temper and cooler dismissal of his concerns.

"You place the worst interpretation on my words, as usual," said Narcissa. This time, Harry thought she might be speaking to both of them, because she seemed to be looking between Harry's eyes, directly at his lightning bolt scar. "I mean no harm. I mean to bring someone into the equation who may help you."

From the way Malfoy tensed behind Harry, he had no idea who that could be. That at least reassured Harry they were somewhere on the same level of misinformation.

And from the way Malfoy was standing there, as helpless before his mother as Harry had to admit he probably would have been before his if she was still alive, Harry knew he was the one who had to take charge. "What do you mean, someone who can help us? Is this someone who knows why the bond isn't working the way it's supposed to?" Even those words made him want to grimace, but he nodded and bore with it when Narcissa made a heavy gesture.

"Even better," said Narcissa. If she disliked Harry even more than usual, she was at least hiding it more easily now than she had been. "Someone who is in a Veela bond, and has been for a long time, so they might tell you what it is supposed to be like."

"Malfoy can tell me what it's supposed to be like," Harry said at once. He already didn't like where this was going. It sounded like having the Ministry bring in a supposed expert Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and look where _that _had gone. "I don't see why we need someone to repeat the information that we already know. What we need to know is what's different about us, not a litany of changes we should make because ancient Veela tradition says so."

"Maybe it would help," said Malfoy, his chin moving around a minute as if Harry's shoulder had become uncomfortable and he wanted to find a different place. "Someone who can feel the bond between us. Some Veela can, you know. Feel others' bonds."

Harry, though, had thought of something else. "Were you thinking of asking a dominant or a submissive?" he asked Narcissa.

Narcissa looked down her nose at him without moving her head, a talent that Harry would have liked to master for the sake of dealing with some of the idiots in the peace talks. "A dominant, of course. A submissive would be at home where they belong."

"Yeah, no," said Harry, and gave her a smile that she was welcome to take as pleasant if she wanted; it made no difference to Harry. "I don't want to speak with yet another person whose major problem with me is that I'm not cowering and whimpering."

"I have told you, and Draco should have told you," said Narcissa, her eyes for a moment stabbing past Harry and focusing on Malfoy. "Submission is not like that. Submission means warmth and protection and being held. There are times that I wished my son would become one, because then he would have someone to always take care of him."

"You keep wanting to make me into something I'm not," said Harry slowly, enjoying the way the words crept out of his mouth, "instead of working with what I _am_. I don't like it. I don't want to talk to someone who's going to repeat the same useless truths to me, I told you."

"In that case, it is good that I won't repeat them," said a casual voice from the doorway. "And while Mrs. Malfoy may have asked me to come, I am not going to to do just what she wants. I will work with the truth of the bond and the mates in front of me."

Harry turned, not liking either the way Malfoy had started hissing into his ear or the fact that he hadn't heard this person enter the room. He couldn't afford to start getting careless like that when lives could depend on his instincts.

The Veela in the doorway was definitely a dominant. His wings were longer and smoother than Malfoy's, though, his feathers a kind of shimmering cream color that dulled into gold and white near the edges. He gave a slight bow to Harry, and then focused his eyes on Malfoy and said, "You are not making him comfortable by holding onto him like that, you know."

Malfoy said nothing, as he had said nothing in English the past few minutes, but continued with his hissing. The Veela sighed and glanced at Harry. "I can see that part of the problem is that you were raised in the Muggle world, but the problems run deeper than that. Is there a room where we might sit down and spend some time talking over this?"

Harry shrugged, deliberately resisting the way that Malfoy's hands and claws pulled at him. "I don't know. It's not my house. Ask them."

"It is the house of the submissive," the dominant began, sounding bewildered, but stopped when Harry groaned and shook his head.

"Not you, too," said Harry. He thought maybe the depth of the weariness in his words convinced the Veela, because he had already seen that it wasn't his words themselves. "I don't think that way, and they haven't made any effort to tell me I should do anything but kiss Malfoy's feet and stay home all day. Ask them where we can go."

The Veela took another long look at him, and then maybe realized that Harry was doing nothing but telling the truth, because he turned around with a faint frown and looked at Narcissa. "You did not tell me about this when we spoke."

"You are here to convince him," Narcissa said, icily enough that Harry almost choked. From the way that the dominant's wings convulsed, the insult was even worse to a Veela, somehow, although Harry really didn't understand that much about why. "I warned you when I summoned you of that."

"You convinced me to come," said the dominant. "You did not summon me." And now Harry could feel another aura of magic pushing at his, hard enough to make Harry sigh and want to withdraw into another room. He couldn't with Malfoy still clinging to him, though.

"Very well," said Narcissa, but she looked as if she was prepared to continue arguing on other grounds if she had to. Harry interrupted ruthlessly.

"Look, can we just get this conversation over with?" he asked. "I really need to sleep, and then I have a speech to write."

"You are politically active?" The dominant was staring at him as though he had sprouted wings of his own.

"_Yes_," said Harry. He supposed that this Veela must be living somewhere that didn't often get the _Daily Prophet, _or he would have known that. "Let's just go somewhere." He yanked on Malfoy's arm, and at least the prat let him go long enough to step up by his side and spread his wings to shield Harry from the dominant's sight. Harry sighed. He didn't much enjoy having a face full of feathers.

"This situation is more complicated than I had realized." The dominant made a sound in his throat that Harry thought might be a growl. Malfoy stiffened, but the Veela spoke on. "I saw an open door to a room with light and wide walls, a room where we might fly if we have to. Shall we retire there?"

Harry shrugged and followed Malfoy when he moved. He assumed something had been decided, and that was enough for him. This was a meeting he would just have to suffer through.

* * *

Draco didn't like having another dominant this close to Harry. He was _amazed _how much he didn't like it.

He wanted to take to the air and swoop at the Veela, someone who was much more in control of his power than Draco was. It would hurt if he tangled with him. But Draco wasn't properly bonded to his mate yet, and another dominant could, at least in theory, prove himself more attractive and draw Harry away.

_So that's one thing that's working the way it's supposed to, _Draco decided when he stepped into Broad Drawing Room behind the dominant and discovered that he couldn't make himself shut the door. _The possessiveness and protective instincts that are supposed to come along with the wings._

"My name is Aloren," said the Veela, and Draco didn't know whether it was a first name or a surname. He only knew that Aloren was bowing a little, his wings spread, and that took away some of his grudge.

"Draco Malfoy," said Draco, when he could remember politeness and force his voice through the clog that had taken up residence in his throat.

"Harry Potter, of course," Harry said, and Draco frowned at him a little as he took a seat near the door. "What did you want to tell us?"

"The damage to your bond," said Aloren, taking a seat on a couch himself and crushing his wings a little, which further soothed Draco's fears that he might try to fly and dazzle Harry, "is extensive. I've never seen such gaping wounds."

Draco couldn't help mantling a little at the pity in his voice, but he did glance over his shoulder at Harry to see how he was taking this. He _had _to acknowledge there was something wrong with the bond now, didn't he? And he would have to acknowledge, as well, that they should do something about it.

But Harry was rubbing his forehead as if he had a headache. Draco sucked in a breath and moved back to his side.

"Are you all right?" he asked, and touched Harry's scalp himself. He thought Harry had tensed to keep from pulling away, but he was too relieved that Harry was letting Draco touch him to care that much. "Is your scar hurting?"

"That hasn't happened since Voldemort fell," said Harry, giving him an odd look, and ignoring his flinch at the name in a way that Draco wished he wouldn't. There was the chance that Harry would say it again soon if he didn't think the flinch was a big deal. Harry turned to look at Aloren. "I didn't grow up in the wizarding world. That's probably why."

"And you were never taught the proper duties of a submissive?" Aloren's wings lifted and fluttered once, and Draco tensed, but then they draped across the back of his couch again. "No, this is a very rare situation."

Draco took his place behind Harry, his hand resting tightly on Harry's shoulder. Harry clucked his tongue once, in what seemed like exhaustion, but made no attempt to shrug Draco off. "Yes, it is. And I'll put up with it as much as I can so that Draco doesn't die, but I need to go on living my life." Draco opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again. They had already argued so much about Harry going out and living his political life that Draco didn't know what he could add.

Aloren folded his hands and rested his chin on top of them. "You have no idea what a real bond is supposed to be like?"

Harry shrugged. "No one ever explained it to me. From what one of my pure-blood friends said, it's rare that it happens even to someone who did grow up here. And that means I didn't concern myself with it."

"You need to concern yourself with it now," Draco said. He couldn't _help _himself. It hurt him beneath his breastbone to hear Harry talking so dismissively about their bond.

Harry turned around as if he was going to snap, but Aloren intervened. "It's more than that," he said. "I would know if the mere problem was that the bond hadn't taken on your side. But there are more wounds than that."

Harry shrugged again. Draco was getting tired of that shrug, but Harry would probably take it the wrong way if Draco tried to stop him from making it. "We used to be rivals. That probably has something to do with it, too."

"Will you permit me?" Aloren held up his hands and tilted his head back to look at Draco.

Instinctively, Draco knew what he wanted to do. He felt his back ripple and his wings arch. It was hard to keep his voice polite. "As long as you remember that I'll fly at your throat the instant you do something to hurt him or take him away."

"You don't have to _worry _about that." Harry's voice was low, and Draco found it even harder to tell what emotion filled it than usual.

"I want to keep you safe," Draco said, and took a chance, and dipped his head so that he could nestle his cheek along Harry's. The smell of his skin was overwhelming that close, and so were the warmth and the trembling pulse in his throat. "Please. Let me? You're so important to me. I want to keep you safe."

Harry hesitated for a long moment, and Draco feared that he would be difficult again. Then Harry leaned his head back, rolling it on the chair, and said, "Fine."

Draco looked up, and found that Aloren was going ahead with the Veela magic that Draco had known he wanted to perform. Draco gave a low growl, but he stayed put. He had granted his permission, and it was more important to stay here and defend his mate than it was to chase Aloren out of the room.

But it was so _hard _to watch as their bond appeared on the air in front of Draco, written in swirls of silvery fire. This was private. Even if most Veela couldn't see the connection that bound them to their mates, feeling it instead, Draco still felt as though someone had tried to rip Harry's clothes off.

He saw the fire wisp and form symbols that looked like letters, and frowned. He had seen the spell performed once before, when he was young, at a wedding that he had attended with his parents, and his first thought was that Aloren had done it wrong. "Isn't it supposed to look like a cord of light stretching between your hands?" he asked. He knew one hand would represent him and one would represent Harry.

"It _should_," agreed Aloren, with a dry sound in his voice, and took a quick look at Harry that resulted in him sighing and turning his head away a second later. "It should indeed. But this bond is so torn that this is all I can bring forth."

Draco stared. It wasn't ripped and tattered, the way Aloren had described it, was his first thought. It was almost nonexistent.

"Why does it look like that?" Harry asked harshly. Draco glanced down at him. He was leaning forwards in the chair, with one hand closed around the arm. He looked offended. Draco found himself perking up, surprisingly. Perhaps this was something that could stir Harry into taking an interest in the bloody bond.

"Because of these," said Aloren, and drew his wand, this time glancing at Harry. Harry didn't even see the implied request for permission—necessary when a Veela was casting in front of the submissive who was the heart of the house—so Draco caught Aloren's eye and nodded instead.

Aloren cast a spell that made several otherwise invisible spots at the ends of the silver ropes light up and twinkle with a black radiance. "These represent the places that the bond should find an anchor in both your souls," he said.

"And I don't have those anchors, because I'm not a natural submissive." Harry sounded as though he was relaxing again.

"No," said Aloren. "That is, you do lack those anchors, but you also have _these_." His wand slashed again, and several more places appeared, black and jagged. Draco caught his breath. Yes, those looked like wounds.

"What are those, then?" Draco was a little shocked that Harry could speak so calmly of things that looked so ugly and dangerous.

"These represent places where certain things were _ripped _out of you." Aloren kept his wings carefully pinned behind his back, which was good, Draco thought, as he would have taken on the posture of a courting dominant otherwise, and Draco would have had to approach him and rip his lungs out. "I believe your experiences in the war may have done some of the damage. But some of these wounds are—it is hard to explain how I know this. That is one reason I sought permission to make the bond visible. But they are older than that."

This time, Draco felt stiffness flood down Harry's back and neck, and the next instant, he had pushed himself out of his chair. For a moment, the bond pulsed with Harry's emotions, shock foremost among them. Draco understood why he was getting such a cloudy sense of them now. They had to travel down the barest smattering of a conduit between them.

"I had a lot of bad experiences at Hogwarts, leading up to the war."

"Older than that," said Aloren, and there was enough pity in his tone to finally calm Draco down and make him dismiss Aloren as a threat. The man wouldn't want someone he would have to support that much, someone who could barely bond with a Veela.

"Fuck you," Harry whispered, and for a second, Draco thought he would use his magic again, the invisible hand that had pinned Draco to a wall. But instead, Harry spun and stalked out of the sitting room.

"What was that?" Aloren asked Draco directly, equal to equal.

Draco had to shake his head. "I have no idea."

"I suggest you find out, soon." Aloren's wings were settling to his back again, and he stared after Harry with trouble in his eyes. "Those wounds might hurt more than the bond, if you leave them on him."


	12. Readiness and Reluctance

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twelve—Readiness and Reluctance_

Harry didn't stop running, or hurrying, along until he got to his bedroom. Then he shut the door behind him and stood there for a second with his eyes shut. He wondered if he could trust Narcissa and Malfoy, and now Aloren, not to intrude on him while he was here.

Then he snorted in bitterness. Of _course _not. Hadn't Narcissa already come in when she wanted to, simply because she wanted to talk to him? And Malfoy would _pity _him now that Aloren had said what he said about the bond. He wouldn't think there was anything wrong with _him_ because the bond wouldn't take. He would think it was everything wrong with Harry.

_I would rather have him scrabbling at me and sniffing my neck and trying to force the bond than pitying me. At least then I would know for sure what to feel about him._

Harry opened his eyes a second later. He already knew, didn't he? The situation with Malfoy was really no different than the situation with the Dursleys. There was the "love" that both of them said they would feel for Harry if he behaved a certain way. All Harry had to do for his aunt and uncle to love him—he had believed this once, anyway—was to get rid of his magic. "All."

And all Harry had to do for Malfoy to love him was give up his independence, his free will, his very sense of self.

_Never. _Dumbledore might have wittered on and on about how Harry's greatest power was love, but Harry had learned to live without the kind of love the Dursleys offered. If it was conditional, if it would make him into a different person if he just _tried, _then he didn't want it. And he never would.

Someone knocked on his door. Harry tensed, turning his head. His neck hurt from how tight his muscles were. He laid his hand on his wand, although if it was Malfoy he wasn't sure how effective it would be.

"Mr. Potter?" That was Aloren's voice, and he spoke so gently that it set Harry's teeth on edge. "I haven't come to plead for Mr. Malfoy. Just to talk to you."

Harry laughed harshly and leaned his head down, panting. If he broke away from the door, he wondered if Aloren would try to come through. These rooms weren't private, after all. Not the way they probably would be if he was a _true _submissive.

The thought of Malfoy holding the rooms' privacy out as some kind of incentive for Harry to submit to him made Harry burn and boil all over again. He held his voice down to a level tone, though, because the kind of scream he wanted to make would burst Aloren's eardrums. "You don't have anything to talk to me about."

"I want you to know something more of how a submissive and dominant truly relate, when there is no damage to the bond and no longing to have a different kind of relationship."

Harry laughed harshly. "And that isn't what I want, is it? No matter how much Malfoy tells me I should, I don't have those instincts that he's talking about."

"The submissive ones? No. But I think you may have misunderstood the role of the submissive in a bond. I don't think that either Mr. Malfoy or his mother explained it to you adequately." For a moment, Aloren's voice dipped. Harry thought it was on Narcissa's name. "If you understood, perhaps you wouldn't resent it so much."

"I would resent it _more_. Because that's the role you want me to play, that you and Malfoy and his mum all want to force me into." Harry paced slowly across the room, turning his head now and then to make sure the door was still locked. "And it's the role I'm never going to play."

Aloren sounded surprised for the first time. "You never want to be loved, or give someone else the pleasure of taking care of you?"

"What kind of pleasure would that be for _me_? I don't love Malfoy. I don't care about bloody seeing him happy. Just alive."

Aloren was silent again for a moment. Then he asked, "Could I come in? If you could listen to me about what else you need to do besides serve your dominant—other things that submissives experience and feel and do—then you might understand better."

"Serving the dominant is the catch, isn't it?" Harry shot another Locking Charm at the door, just to be sure. Of course, maybe Aloren's wings or strength or something would let him come through the door, and then he would _learn _about some of the spells that Harry had seen the Aurors use in combat. "I'll never do that."

"Even the terms of service may have been misunderstood." Aloren seemed resigned to speaking through the door, which reluctantly impressed Harry. He was the first person Harry had met who was willing to have a conversation about this on Harry's terms, even if he had asked for other things. "It doesn't mean taking care of them or crawling at their feet like a slave."

"I don't want to be a slave _or _a servant."

"This is hard to explain to someone who didn't grow up hearing about it." Aloren sounded a little wistful.

"Imagine that I'm a child," said Harry, and if there was laughter in the back of his voice, harsh and cackling laughter, well, he didn't need to explain that to Aloren. "Tell me the way you would a child who comes to you for the first time and asks about submissives and dominants. Remember that I can ask questions a child wouldn't ask, though."

"You've already asked several, I'm unlikely to forget," Aloren murmured, but began. "Dominants are the ones who face outwards. Submissives are the ones who face inwards."

Harry tilted his head back. "Why do all these magical creatures like speaking in metaphors?" he asked the ceiling. "Explain to me what _that _one means. So far, it seems like the submissive mostly faces inwards because they're crouched on the floor with their arse in the air all the time."

"Submissives are the ones who handle private matters." If Aloren was upset that Harry was speaking disrespectfully of the supposedly sacred Veela bond, he didn't show it, simply answering the question with a patience that actually startled Harry. "Dominants are the ones who handle public matters."

Harry shook his head. "That _does _sound like the division that Malfoy was explaining to me, and I'm afraid I'm not going to follow _that _one, either. I have an active political career."

"Most submissives don't," said Aloren, as if he assumed that a statement of fact was a demand for more information. "They find that they have enough to do keeping the home in order and being the heart of the house."

"My friend Hermione said something about that phrase," said Harry. "It sounded like I would look through portraits' eyes at people and control what the wards of the houses did or something. And no, thanks." He shuddered. The thought of being responsible for Malfoy's safety and what would happen to him if something got through the wards and wounded Malfoy was enough to give him nightmares.

"It is more than that," said Aloren. "They did not explain it to you?"

"They only explained that I was supposed to be Malfoy's servant and in love with him."

"Not that I do not wonder what went wrong with the bond to damage it so badly," said Aloren, sounding brisk now, "but they do need to explain more of this to you. So. A submissive being the heart of the house means that the house revolves around him. The house-elves come to him for orders. He needs to be consulted about any guest who arrives and what the family will give to the guest. He needs to be the one who decorates the rooms and chooses the food for the meals and decides what should happen to the children when they cause trouble inside the house. If they cause trouble in public, then the dominant disciplines them."

"Life as a housewife," said Harry, thinking of the chores he had done for Aunt Petunia and shuddering again. Telling house-elves to do them didn't sound any more interesting than doing them himself.

"I don't know what you mean," said Aloren. "Is it a Muggle term?"

Harry sighed. "Where do the parts about the wards and the portraits' eyes come into it?"

"The submissive is also responsible for defense of the house, of course," said Aloren. "He keeps the people around him safe and happy, and he roots out the causes of the hatred and unhappiness and depression they are suffering. He gives permission for certain spells to be cast in the house, and rules out others. He dictates whether children can be allowed to practice their magic on warded property that would hide their practice from the Ministry. He uses the portraits and the wards as part of the system of defense, and the wards are linked to him."

Harry paused. That was the only part that didn't sound so bad, he thought. He would have liked to live somewhere with his friends and defend them and support them.

But he wouldn't have a choice about who to defend, would he? He would have to defend Malfoy or his mum or whoever was living in the houses at the time. And he would never get the chance to invite his friends over.

"What if I'm not interested in that?" he asked. "Or what if I wanted to do some of that and not all of it? Or what if I wanted to do it but also have a political career?"

"Being heart of the house involves one more duty."

Harry heard the slowness in Aloren's voice, and smirked. _I knew we were going to come to it eventually. _"Let me guess," he told the ceiling. "That duty is serving the dominant."

"Well, yes," said Aloren. "And most dominants don't want their submissives venturing out into danger. Almost everything beyond the walls of a house is dangerous for the submissive. People might want to force them to grant them access to the house, so they can steal the family's money or artifacts. They might try to kidnap their children, or use them to take revenge on the dominant's family."

Harry shook his head, all the more confirmed now in what he had already suspected. "There's no way for me to be _me _with a role like that," he said. "It's all about the dominant and his family. Even say that I didn't hate Malfoy and I didn't have a political career and I wanted to do some of this shit. It doesn't leave a place for me. I'd be a thing. An object. A prized artifact. The ward on a house. Something valuable, but not for itself. What it can do."

"That's not true." Aloren sounded for the first time in a while as though he might try to break through the door, and Harry put another charm on it. "Dominants love their submissives. Of course they want them to have what they want."

"Just not an independent life, if that's what they desire."

"I don't know." Already Aloren sounded wretched. "It's not something that's ever come up before."

Harry snorted. "Well, now it has. And I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Malfoy. I'll do the compromises that will keep him alive. And me alive. And my political options alive. Nothing more than that. I'm not his fan or his friend any more than I'm his submissive."

"If you knew how much it hurts a dominant when his submissive doesn't listen to him or pay attention to him-"

"And it hurts _me _to be forced into this sort of life," Harry interrupted. He almost wished he'd opened the door to Aloren so he could see the bastard's face now and make him really _understand _what Harry was talking about. "I know Malfoy didn't choose it. _Neither did I. _I'm not going to give everything up, no matter what, so that he gets what I want and I get nothing."

"He would love you," Aloren whispered. "I do truly believe that he has the capacity for that."

"But I don't, according to your bond-reading spell." The thought of that thing still made Harry want to flinch, but he thought he understood now. It didn't mean he couldn't love his friends or that what he'd felt for Ginny wasn't real. It only meant that he didn't have the capacity to love Malfoy in a Veela bond. Which was what he'd been trying to tell him all along. "Compromise is about all he can ask for. I'm not giving anything else up."

"What happened to you, leaving you unable to love or submit?"

"To love _a Veela_," said Harry sharply. He wasn't about to let Aloren go around thinking he couldn't feel love, not when he'd bloody well walked into the Forbidden Forest to make the sacrifice of his life for people he loved. "That's not the same thing as anything else."

"What happened?"

"There was this Dark Lord who wanted my head, you see."

"It must be more than that." Aloren's voice dipped again, and Harry pictured him leaning against the door, his claws out as if he would tear down the wood. It was probably the posture Malfoy would take if he was there. "Maybe it's the sort of thing your mate can heal, if you tell him about it."

"War trauma doesn't heal that easily, and you can't bring back the dead." And some of it, like the Horcrux, Harry would never tell anyone about. Knowing Malfoy, the git would probably want to make one just in case.

"This trauma is older than the war."

"And I _won't discuss it._" Harry snarled in a way that he hadn't done since he'd pinned Malfoy to the wall of the library with his magic. He'd begun to think they could live together, and then _this _happened. Knowing Malfoy, he wouldn't leave it alone; he would insist that he had some sort of right to know everything that had ever happened to Harry.

It was horrible, in a way, because Harry had hoped that he would be able to tell everything to somebody someday. To lay out in words what it was like to find out you were a Horcrux and someone had manipulated you most of your life.

But he had told his friends, and Ron and Hermione were _great _friends. If he was never going to have a wife or lover he could be with, well, he still had more than a lot of people with Horcruxes in their heads might have.

"Harry," said Malfoy's voice abruptly.

Harry jerked his head back, wondering where Aloren had gone and why Malfoy had taken his place. "What are you doing, Malfoy?" he asked, "I was talking to Aloren about something."

"I know what he probably wanted to talk to you about." Malfoy sounded as though he also resented the fact, but he went on before Harry could snap at him. "And I want you to know that what you talk about with him will remain-private. Between the two of you."

Harry blinked some more. But a private conversation with Aloren really didn't matter to him very much. He wanted a different kind of promise. "You won't ask me about it, either? About the damage to the bond or why we can't bond?"

There was a moment of silence so sharp that Harry could have used it as a weapon.

"I _want _to ask," said Malfoy finally, and there was a longing in his voice that was foreign to Harry. It sounded a little like the desire some of his fans had to ask him questions, but that had never been as yearning as this. It was more greedy. "But I won't. If it's that important to you to keep silent."

"Aloren seemed to think that we had to work it out and heal it somehow." Harry couldn't help himself, even if Malfoy had sincerely meant his promise. He wanted to push further, to push against the boundaries and make _sure _that Malfoy wasn't going to break his word at a later date.

"We have the time to work out a compromise and test it," Malfoy said. "All our lives. There are things I want to change, but maybe we can find a way to change them without discussing the past. As much as I want to know. And you can tell me if you ever want to."

Harry relaxed a little. Yes, Malfoy was the same Malfoy. Those last words had been the most eager ones he'd uttered yet.

But if Harry could trust him a little, and hold him to his promise about not prying into his past, then the sort of compromise he'd proposed might be tolerable.

"I want your word that you won't ask anything," he said. "If I feel comfortable enough to say something to you, that's one thing, but no asking."

Silence from the other side of the door.

"Malfoy?" Harry leaned on it. "I can work with you and do what I need to without talking about things that don't matter. You know it."

* * *

Draco winced and closed his eyes. He did know it. But even though he had said he wouldn't break into Harry's silence without a reason, he _wanted _to break it. He wanted to ask, and he wanted Harry to freely answer.

_Freely._

That, he would never win unless he left the choice of when and how to speak up to Harry. And although his Veela screamed at him inside his head about how it needed its mate, its submissive, ultimately Harry freely giving him what he wanted was the greater prize. It might happen someday.

It was on the trust and hope of that someday that Draco nodded, took a deep breath, and murmured, "All right. No asking. No prying. As long as you _do _tell me if you feel like telling me."

Silence in turn, and Draco wondered if that wasn't good enough and he should open his mouth to promise something else. But then the door opened, and Harry stood there, scanning him up and down as though he thought Aloren's bond-sensing spell should have left a kind of visible residue on Draco.

Draco gave Harry a tight smile. It was hard to remain calm when he thought of Aloren, who he'd summarily sent away, but he could do it for Harry's sake. Harry was more important to him than any dominant could ever be, even if the dominant had been intent on stealing Harry, which Draco didn't think was the case here.

"All right," Harry said, guarded, an answer and a question both at once.

"All right," Draco echoed back, and in a way it was. At least he had an answer now for why the bond wasn't functioning , if not an answer in all the complete detail he wanted.

Harry gave him a tentative smile, and that was enough to content Draco's Veela for now. He nodded, and stood back to let Harry precede him down the stairs.

Harry did pause with his hand on the railing and say, "I would appreciate it if your mother didn't poke at me anymore about not respecting the bond and you enough. Bring problems to me if you have them. If there's something you need to live."

Draco grunted. He hadn't been pleased by his mother springing Aloren on them, either, even though he had managed to live with it. "You can count on that."

Harry shot him one more, far more dazzling, smile, and allowed Draco to touch his back with a wing as they walked down. Draco felt he couldn't ask for anything more.

_Right now, anyway._


	13. Interventions and Interference

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Thirteen-Interventions and Interference_

"I will go now, then," said Aloren, making a small bow and looking from one of their faces to the other, as though he assumed that they were making the decision separately. Draco wrapped a wing around Harry's shoulders and just waited, and Aloren nodded as though that had been an answer to the question. "If you cannot yet decide whether you want to hear more about submissives and dominants and the way that they answer the call of their bonds, I can't blame you."

"I would be willing to hear more," said Harry. Draco tested the bond and found that one of the conduits was open enough, or Harry's emotion was powerful enough, to come to him in scattered fragments. Harry was calm right now. "But we do have to work out a compromise on our own. Greater understanding can come after that."

"Are you willing to do this?" Aloren looked at Draco this time.

Draco met his eyes and reminded himself that he was trying to help, and not challenging Draco's right to cradle or comfort or protect Harry, the way a hostile dominant would be. "I need to compromise," he said.

Aloren seemed to understand the unspoken words, which involved there being no other mate for him, and grimaced a little. "There might be the option of breaking the bond," he said. "It is uncertain whether you would survive, but we could try it."

"How many people have survived the breaking of a Veela bond?" Draco asked. He knew it couldn't be very many, or it was one of the first options his mother would have suggested once Harry began to show the signs of not being a typical submissive.

"One or two," said Aloren. "It was never the same two from the same bond, though."

Draco nodded. While the possibility existed, it was as he had thought: it was so low that it was essentially the same as a death sentence.

"Yeah, I can't die," said Harry. "I have to _live_."

Draco paused once, his wing tightening a little despite himself. Harry gave him a quick neutral look, and Draco shook his head. He needed more, after the dazzling smile that Harry had given him on the stairs. And while he would keep his promise not to ask about Harry's past and what had damaged the bond that badly, at least as much as he could, he _needed _to ask about something else.

"Can I talk to you now, Harry?" he asked, and made his voice as friendly and accommodating as he could. "We should start creating the grounds for that compromise."

Harry nodded, although the look he cast at Draco was measuring, that of someone who knew that he was up to something. He moved towards the library, and Aloren cocked his head and gave Draco a glance up and down.

"You know that you can't plot against him," he said. "That he won't take any sort of secret plans well."

"I know that," Draco said coldly. Aloren wasn't a hostile dominant trying to take Draco's mate away, but he _was _annoying. "That would be why I'm talking to him now."

"You don't have any idea what you're up against," Aloren whispered, and the expression on his face was almost tender. "I don't think this is a situation that any Veela have ever faced since bonding came into being."

"All the better for me," said Draco, with an expression he knew his mother would probably dismiss as stubborn. But this was Draco's life, and his bond, and he was the only one who could decide what he would put up with.

"If you say so," said Aloren, after a long moment when Draco thought he would offer more unwanted advice, and his head inclined in a smooth bob. "I will come back if you summon me, but only then."

He left. Draco watched him go, and only really relaxed when the front door of the house shut and he could be sure that Aloren was out of his domain.

Or his submissive's domain. But he supposed he could think of them as sharing the house, since Harry was so reluctant to take up his traditional role.

He still waited a moment before he turned and went into the library, but that was to brace himself for the confrontation to come as much as anything else.

* * *

"I know that you said you wouldn't tell me about your past that led up to the damage to the bond, and I would try not to ask. But I wanted to ask about something else. What made you so absolutely committed to leading the peace effort?"

"Admit it," Harry said, keeping his back turned as he examined the books on the shelves. There was nothing here that looked as if it would be useful to him, unlike some of the other libraries on the upper floors. There was only general magic theory, and a few books on wizarding history. He supposed this was the "respectable" library that the Malfoys could show to anyone who came in from the Ministry and wanted to see what they were reading. "You were about to say _absurdly _committed."

"Maybe I was. So help me understand."

Harry sighed and turned around. He thought it wouldn't do much harm. This was all documented in newspapers, for one thing. Malfoy could find out even if he didn't ask Harry, and Harry would rather that he ask him so he could control the flow of information.

It was different from things like the Horcrux, which Harry was never going to admit to, and the Dursleys, which Harry would only admit to his friends. And maybe it would help Malfoy understand Harry's insistence on a political career.

"I knew the war would continue, after it was supposedly over," he said quietly. "Some Death Eaters sent me owls swearing vengeance and saying they would attack Hogwarts if I ever went back there. And then I started hearing from Muggleborns who felt mistreated, and pure-bloods who did, and the Ministry told me about all the problems brewing under the surface."

"The Muggleborns and the pure-bloods and the Ministry were writing _to you_?"

Harry frowned at Malfoy, not understanding the flat disbelief in his eyes and voice. On the other hand, maybe he should have anticipated it. Of course he would finally tell the truth and have Malfoy promptly disregard it. "Not the Ministry. I was there daily, testifying at the trials and talking about how I defeated Voldemort and whether I'd enter Auror training. But lots of letters from other people, yes."

"Why, though?" Malfoy's wings arched up like bows and flexed, once. Harry stepped prudently aside in case he tried to fly across the room with Harry in the way. "They couldn't have found someone else who could have handled their problems? You've already done enough."

Harry paused. "I agreed with that at first." Sometimes he still did. "But there's a saying, if you want something done, you give it to someone busy. They probably thought I'd be good at saving the world again because I'd already done it once."

"They should still have found better people to carry the burden," Malfoy insisted. He snapped his wings down again when he noticed Harry watching them, but he sounded upset. "Older people."

Harry snorted and folded his arms. "Admit it, you only care about that because I'm your mate. You wouldn't give a shit about what I was doing if I wasn't."

Malfoy glared at him. Then he said, when he seemed to realize that Harry was waiting for an answer, "And you can blame me, with our history?"

Harry paused, then shrugged. He supposed not. He wouldn't have cared what Malfoy was doing after the war as long as he didn't attack one of Harry's friends or do something that would make Harry have to testify at another trial.

"Fine," said Malfoy, wrapping his wings around his body as if he was cold this time. "So they were writing to you. But I've seen you ignore people writing to you and about you before. What made you change your mind this time?"

"I was so angry at everything, all the time," Harry said. "I needed something to take my mind off the war. And here were all these people telling me another war was going to come along soon, and I'd have to fight in it. I got angry at those people, finally. It took about a week after the war," he added, smiling. He could remember the night when he'd made the decision calmly now. "I decided that I was going to tell them all to fuck off, the ones who wanted me to fight and the ones who were threatening me, by dedicating myself to peace."

Malfoy was still staring, and Harry shrugged again. "I told you once before that my reason was selfish. I'm not some paragon, no matter what the people writing to me wanted to think."

"I didn't mean to say you were." Malfoy's voice was quiet. "But tell me the story of how you decided it. Was it one day, or did it take longer than that?"

"I almost destroyed my room," Harry admitted. "I was so frustrated, because first I thought about starting a peace process and then I thought of the Ministry and how badly they were botching it. So I lashed out with my magic because I couldn't see any way to _do _it."

"What happens when you lash out with your magic?"

"I almost destroy things," Harry said, wondering if he happened to be mated to a deaf Veela, and maybe Veela developed deafness at a later age than other people.

"No," said Malfoy, and his voice was almost eerie now in how flat and seemingly lifeless it was. "Tell me the _story_. What did it look like? What spells did you use?"

Harry peered at him again. It was such a strange thing to want to know. He thought Malfoy's goal was to get Harry to be submissive to him. How would knowing something about Harry's magic and how dangerous it was help him with that goal?

But Harry decided that was Malfoy's business. And in a way, it would be a relief to describe this like he couldn't even to his friends. Ron would have listened, but Hermione wanted Harry to hold onto his temper, and wouldn't have been pleased to know about a time he lost it. And Harry wasn't going to ask Ron to keep secrets from Hermione.

"I can't really tell you about spells. I was striking out with so much power that I couldn't even put it in words. It would land on a wall, and the wall would shudder and buckle." Harry tried to think of how to describe the small craters his magic had put in the walls, and finally came up with, "It looked like the place a meteor would have landed."

He wondered if he'd have to explain the Muggle science term to Malfoy, but Malfoy said in what sounded like a breathless voice, "Go on."

Harry nodded. "Anyway, I was making these colored flashes appear above me, and these whips that made things catch on fire where they landed. And this ball of white fire hovered above my hand. I could feel how hot it was, but somehow I knew it wouldn't burn me. I knew I could throw it at something and it would burn it whole, though. Leave not even ashes behind."

"How can you hang onto your temper when there's such power waiting to be accessed?" Malfoy's eyes were huge.

"Because it's only power," said Harry, a little confused. "It's not even the kind of power that can help me do what I need to do. Unless I want to scare everyone into behaving, and set myself up as dictator. Which I don't."

Malfoy lowered his gaze to the floor. Harry waited for him to ask another question, but he didn't, so Harry added, "And besides, I don't always keep it under control. You saw that when I pinned you to the wall in the library." He grimaced. "I'm sorry for losing it like that."

"You're sorry for pinning me, or sorry for losing your temper?" Malfoy's eyes were back on him.

"Both?" Harry offered, unsure himself. He shook his head. He hadn't felt this uncertain in a while. At least he knew where he was with a schedule of meetings and peace talks and public appearances, and even with something a little silly like receiving an Order of Merlin. He knew what impression the public would take away from that, and it was a good one.

Or would have been, if Malfoy hadn't ambushed him during the ceremony.

He scowled a little at Malfoy, who was obviously thinking of something else. "Why is Granger always telling you to hold onto your temper?"

"It's not just her. Kingsley does the same thing when I have a public appearance for the Ministry and losing my temper could ruin it. And that's the sort of thing that really _could._"

"But they keep insisting that you hold onto your temper, and there are some people you would impress if you lost it. And your magic could make you a power in the world in another way." Malfoy leaned forwards. "What did Granger say when you told her that you almost destroyed your room?"

_And this is what happens when you start talking about this kind of thing to Malfoy, _Harry scolded himself. _It makes you disloyal to your best friends._

"I haven't told her," he admitted, and then turned away when Malfoy's wings snapped up and a sound that was far too delighted broke from his throat. "And I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Please."

Harry paused in the middle of pulling a random book off the shelf. That sound was too breathy and discontented. He turned around.

Malfoy was on his knees with one wing extended to him as though he was balancing a platter on it. "You don't know how much this means to me, to hear about this, and know it's our secret alone, when you won't tell me about more of the past," he said, and bowed his head. "Please don't take this from me."

"Merlin, Malfoy, get _up_," Harry said, and crossed the room to grip his arms and pull him to his feet. "Don't-don't kneel to me. Please. Not ever. I hate that." He ran his fingers through his hair and patted Malfoy's shoulder awkwardly above the wing. "Fine, I won't stop talking about it. But there's not much more to say. Hermione wouldn't approve. That's why I didn't tell her."

"I'm glad to know that you would tell me," said Malfoy, and smiled at him. "Even if it's because you don't care that much about what I would say. It says you trust me in a way you don't trust her."

Harry sighed and buried his head in his hands. He had known this would come up sooner or later. Malfoy just _had _to insist that this happened because of distrusting his friends, or some other nonsense.

"I don't want you to be in competition with each other, okay?" he asked the floor. "I don't want them feeling like I'm neglecting them for you, and I don't want you to feel like I'm talking to them about you behind your back."

"Do they know all about the part of your past that you won't talk to me about?"

"Not _all _of it," said Harry. He'd said that because he didn't want Malfoy coming up with the bright idea to question Ron and Hermione, but from the way that Malfoy brightened and preened a little, he was taking it yet another way. Harry sighed again. He didn't know how to handle this. He wanted to lose his temper and he couldn't. He wanted to tell Malfoy to shut _up_ and get away from him, and he couldn't.

And why did Malfoy care about knowing all those insignificant things about him, anyway? It didn't make sense.

* * *

Draco watched the expressions flicker across Harry's face, and smiled in what he hoped came across as a sympathetic way. From the scowl Harry gave him, and the torn emotions pulsing down the ragged bond, it didn't.

But Draco wanted to be sympathetic. Harry had told him some private facts. He had admitted that he didn't tell his friends everything. He had wanted Draco to stand up and not kneel to him, which was an excellent sign that he meant what he said and didn't want to occupy the dominant role in Draco's place.

What if Draco took most of what he said as true as well? That he didn't care that much about Draco, but also didn't want to hurt him, and he had a temper, and he didn't want to lose it, and his magic was really that strong?

It changed some things. Draco could look on Harry with a kinder eye, and think about the bond a different way.

"All right," he said. "Thank you for telling me what you did."

Harry paused and turned to stare over his shoulder at Draco. He appeared stricken. Draco didn't know why. He meant what he'd said, and he gave a little bow and walked to the library door.

"Where are you going?" Harry's voice floated after him.

"I'm giving you some privacy," Draco said, and paused and looked back at him. "Wasn't that what you wanted?"

Harry shrugged again, looking embarrassed. "I don't mean to chase you out of rooms in your own house, you know."

"It's your house as much as mine," Draco said. "Not more," he continued hastily, when he saw Harry's scowl start forming. "Not because you're the submissive. But it's your home, too. You can invite other people over and read the books and put charms on your doors to lock them if you want."

And he left, because Harry's face was a picture he didn't want to spoil.

_Nothing is going to be the same as I thought it was. But maybe, _Draco thought, considering the shiver of pleasure that had run through him when Harry told him the truth and again when Harry pulled him back to his feet, _it can be better._


	14. Daphne and Draco

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Fourteen—Daphne and Draco_

Harry nodded to the fireplace and stood up. "I'll be right over, Hermione. The strategy meeting is in the Leaky Cauldron, right?"

"It is." Hermione's expression was resigned as she watched Harry gather up the books and parchments he'd need to bring with him. Harry didn't think it was for the books and parchments themselves, but the table he picked them up from. "You're really doing it?"

"Of course I plan to work on showing the pure-bloods that a bunch of their cherished families come from Muggleborns," Harry said, halting and staring at her. "Why else would I have spent all this time researching genealogies?"

"Not that. You're staying with Malfoy. You're making this bond work, the way Ron says you have to."

Harry snorted a little. "How much of this is about me making the bond work, and how much of it this is the argument you want to win with Ron?"

From the way Hermione flushed, he knew he had scored a hit, but she still faced him with glittering eyes and cheeks. "You know that I'd help you fight it. That you shouldn't have to spend the rest of your days bound to him. And I would win."

"Win against what? Me? Him? The pure-bloods?" Harry shook his head. "I did get a few letters over the weekend congratulating me on the bond, you know. I think Malfoy is right that this'll do a bit of good with some of the stodgy traditionalists. They think I'm more bound into their world now."

"You shouldn't have to give up your freedom for the peace effort!" If Hermione had had a desk in front of her, Harry thought, she would have pounded a fist on it.

Harry rolled his eyes, and he didn't care that she could see him doing it. Something like that would have hurt Malfoy if he had seen Harry doing it, but his friendship with Hermione could survive such a minor challenge. "I already have. If you want to see it that way. I personally don't, because I chose to make the sacrifice. No one forced me to." He drew in his breath to ask another question about the meeting, but Hermione pushed on.

"You shouldn't have to give up your freedom for him, either," Hermione whispered, and Harry knew they had come to the heart of the matter.

Harry shrugged as much as he could without disturbing the books in his arms. "I don't know what you want me to say, Hermione. Part of this is because Malfoy would die if I left him. I don't want that to happen. Part of this is because it was easier than staging some massive rebellion that would probably _also _have left Malfoy dead."

"But how much of this is for you? Does the bond give you _anything_, or just another burden to deal with?"

Harry smiled gently at her. "Malfoy's not that horrible, you know. Not as horrible as I thought he would be. I assumed he would make me crawl at his feet, and I would have struck back at him for that."

"I'm glad there's _some _kind of limit to your tolerance."

Harry looked at her, and thought of many things that he could say. But they would have been upsetting to him and to her, and he didn't need an argument before the strategy meeting. "Anyway. Tell me if the Greengrasses are going to be there."

Hermione's eyes widened as if he had asked her whether she still revered Dumbledore. "Of course they are! They're an integral part of bringing together the pure-bloods who would listen to you about having Muggleborn heritage in the first place."

Harry shook his head marginally. "Then I need to make sure that Daphne doesn't approach me." He wondered if she would listen, though. He hadn't had any clue about her feelings until she revealed them, but since then, she'd been fairly persistent.

In fact, the only thing that had made her back off was…

Harry nodded, his mind made up. "I'm going to ask Draco to come with me."

"You're mad," said Hermione, checking his face as if she would find a sign of fever there. "You are, aren't you? The burden of carrying the whole peace process on your back has finally driven you mad, and you're lashing out without any notion of a formed plan."

Harry squinted at her in irritation. "Look, Daphne is pure-blood and knows about all these rules and roles and rituals that I don't, and she _still _somehow decided it was a brilliant idea to come up to me and piss Draco off. I don't think she'll stop because I'm alone at one meeting. And I don't want to come home to questioning so intense that—"

He cut himself off, because Hermione looked honestly stricken, the way she had when she remembered a meeting they almost didn't attend last week. "What is it?"

"You called Malfoy Manor home," Hermione whispered, and raised one hand as if she could fend off Harry from coming any closer.

"For fuck's sake," said Harry. "Not you, _too_. I know that a bunch of people are watching my every move and judging it, and Malfoy's mother is one of them. And the Greengrasses probably are now, and the people we're meeting with _definitely _are. I thought I could count on you not to analyze my every little movement and tell me why it's wrong, Hermione."

"I didn't mean to do that," said Hermione, looking chastened. "But I think it would be best if you didn't bring Malfoy to this meeting, Harry."

"And _I _think it would be for the best if you did."

Harry jumped a little, even though he had heard the door open and Malfoy walk into the room behind him. Hermione really flinched, of course, seeing Malfoy unexpectedly drape his arms around Harry's shoulders, followed a moment later by his wings. Harry arched his head out of that warm cocoon so he could see Hermione and go on speaking to her. "Like I said, Daphne won't back off, and it has to be for political reasons. Maybe this will teach her to keep her mind on the job in front of her."

Hermione looked a little devastated. "I know that she only wants the best for you, Harry."

"Wanting to marry my mate or have the Boy-Who-Lived at her side isn't what's best for Harry," Malfoy said.

Harry knew that he and Hermione would get into it any second, so he jumped in. "She might believe that, Hermione. Maybe it would have been for the best before I knew about being Malfoy's mate." Malfoy tightened his hold on Harry, but said nothing. Harry smiled at him to reward him for his self-restraint, and went on, "But now, she could jeopardize a large part of the peace process for her own reasons. I won't have it."

"Is all you think about the peace process?" Hermione asked, looking as if she pitied him.

"Yes," said Malfoy, and gave a quick, complaining huff to the back of Harry's neck that made the hairs there stand up.

Hermione gave Malfoy another unfriendly look, probably because she didn't want to agree with him, and Harry rolled his eyes and gave up on being subtle. "You can disagree or disparage each other later. Right now, we have a meeting to get to."

"We do," said Malfoy, and gave him a small pinch on the side while Hermione was still shuffling around and muttering what sounded like complaints to herself. "Tell me, would you have brought me with you if your friend hadn't told you about Daphne?"

"I don't know," Harry had to say. "But I'm the one who asked if they were going to be there, so your question is irrelevant."

Malfoy frowned as if he didn't think it was, but Hermione asked him a question about precedent then, and Harry was glad to turn around and tell her what he had found when he looked up means of informing pure-blood families about their Squib and Muggleborn relatives. He could swear that dealing with everyone's bloody families was less exhausting than this mate business.

He wanted…he wanted a peaceful personal life, if he could get it, along with peace in the larger wizarding world.

He just wasn't sure if he could get that if he did both what Malfoy wanted and what he wanted.

* * *

Draco looked around the room with a faint sneer. It was a room on the first floor of the Leaky Cauldron, magically enhanced with wizardspace for the meeting. It had the typical dark, smoke-stained walls and sooty fireplace of the Leaky, though. Draco wondered morbidly for a moment if this was one reason that Harry didn't seem to care much about all the beauty and space available to him at the Manor, because he had lived and worked in places like this for most of his life.

_What was his life in the Muggle world like?_

Draco burned to know. Ever since Aloren had said that the wounds preventing the bond from taking were old, he had thought they had to come from Harry's life before Hogwarts. It wasn't as though either of them was that old in the first place.

But for now, he knew he wouldn't get an answer, so he settled for watching Harry speak to and greet the guests.

And once the guests started arriving, they _kept _arriving. Draco could feel his eyebrows creeping up his face as he watched them. He knew that relatively few pure-blood families would welcome the revelations that Harry and Granger seemed likely to spring at this meeting.

It made him wonder if some people were here for different, less idealistic reasons, and when he saw the Maundys—a family so fussy that they wouldn't even send their children to a wizarding school, instead keeping them at home and educating them themselves—he was sure of it. He drifted towards Harry and touched his shoulder with a wing.

Harry turned around from speaking with Weasley to blink at him. Weasley looked back and forth between them, as if he was as eager as Draco for a sign that they were bonded.

_What has my life come to, when my greatest ally is a _Weasley?

Draco didn't ask the question aloud, because no one had a satisfactory answer. Instead, he nodded to Harry and murmured, "Who invited Tamara Maundy and her brood? You'll have your meeting livened up, sure, but you can have peace without boredom."

Harry glanced around, and Draco thought for a second he would have to point the Maundys out. But then Harry saw them, and relaxed a little. "Oh, them. She owled me and said that the issues of blood politics and purity were important to her family, and they were interested in knowing about their inheritance and ancestors."

"I bet they bloody well are," Draco muttered, his eyes on the tall woman who must be Tamara, surrounded by her four children. All of them had the iron-grey hair that was the mark of the Maundy line. They swept by Harry without a single glance, but stopped to speak to Granger, and Draco had to smile.

"What is it, Malfoy? You look like you're swallowing broken glass."

It was Weasley who spoke, and Draco nodded to him. There were certain things they both knew and inclinations they both shared, he thought—not because they wanted to share them, but because that was the sort of thing you had to know, if you were surviving in the pure-blood world of wizarding Britain. "You know the probable reason the Maundys are here, right?"

Weasley hesitated, then shrugged. "They're speaking to Hermione. They can't be that bad."

Indeed, Draco had noticed that most of the pure-bloods in the room still ignored Granger. But Tamara was winning her over, that was obvious, with her overawing manner. Never mind that she didn't smile and took care to keep a small but obvious amount of space between her and Granger.

"They're here because they _do _want to know about the Muggleborns or Squibs in their line," said Draco, lowering his voice. There were certain things that one didn't say all that loud around a family as dangerous as the Maundys. "So they can burn the books that mention them if they're ancestors, and make sure that the people who know about them—or who are them, if there are any descendants still alive—die fairly soon. Of an untraceable tragic accident, of course. They all are. Always."

Harry turned around and stared at him, gravely. But at least he didn't say that Draco was making it up, which was more grace than Draco had thought he might get. Instead, he nodded, and turned around and surveyed the Maundys with more interest.

"Hermione looks charmed by them," he observed.

Draco held back his sneer with effort. "They're working to be charming. It wouldn't help them if everyone thought that they were snobbish. They can show people the good side of that much money and power when they want."

Harry looked distant. Draco took a close look at him, wondering if he had said something that made him doubt his peace process again, but bit his tongue on the impulse to apologize. If Harry really wanted this to work, then he would have to take the truth into account.

"I'll remember that," said Harry, and nodded to Draco. "Thanks, Malfoy."

Draco couldn't help the way he stretched his wings or the croon that warbled out of his throat. Harry didn't flinch at that, just blinked, and Weasley's face was doing an odd thing where he looked as if he wanted at the same time to support their bond and to be elsewhere while they were enacting it.

"Harry. I have something to say to you."

Draco hissed and turned around. Daphne was standing in front of them, her eyes sliding away from Draco as if he didn't exist. She focused her gaze on Harry, and it was obvious that she wasn't going to give up any time soon.

"Then say it," said Harry.

For a moment, Draco thought he could give thanks for Harry's absolute ice-smooth demeanor. He wasn't giving anything away to Draco and Draco _hated _that, but on the other hand, he could outface his "suitors" without giving them any encouragement, either.

"I want to speak to you alone," said Daphne, and her hands trembled a little before she put them behind her back and bowed her head. "I need to apologize for my previous behavior."

Draco started to lift his wings and speak. Harry would be fooled by this because he needed the Greengrasses for his peace process, and—

But Harry only said, "I don't see any reason that you can't offer an apology in front of other people. I'm sure I can take it, and so can they."

Daphne lifted her head and locked her eyes with Harry's. Draco felt a moment of breathless hatred for her, and didn't know whether the emotion would be as strong with anyone who wanted to claim Harry, or if it was especially strong here because Daphne had got close to Harry by pretending to be a purely political ally.

_How dare you exploit the thing that matters most to him, you stupid, stupid…_

But Draco choked back his natural reaction, though in most contexts the pure-bloods would have expected it and even encouraged it from him. He reminded himself that in this case, his mate was capable of defending himself, and he held back, if barely, hovering on the edge.

_He shouldn't _have _to defend himself. He deserves someone who will follow him around and cherish his every word and—_

"You're not sorry, are you?"

Harry's voice was so weary. Draco blinked and looked at him, breaking his intense if one-sided staring contest with Daphne. That wasn't the emotion he had expected to hear.

"I don't know what you mean." Daphne tilted her head and let her blond hair slide down her neck. Draco, who knew exactly how she was displaying herself to advantage because she used to do it in the Slytherin common room, nearly snarled himself to death.

Harry didn't react to the sound. "You would have apologized," he said. "Or given me a better reason for not wanting to speak in public. Even saying that it was embarrassing would have done."

Daphne's lips parted a little. Draco hoped, viciously, that she was blaming herself for not having thought of that tactic.

"But instead, you just stood there and waited for me to give in." Harry shook his head. "It doesn't matter. You're like everyone else who has some kind of desire for me that uses me. No different than the rest. No worse." He paused as if he was gathering his breath. "No better."

Draco stood silent, staring at Harry's back. He could hear Daphne spluttering a denial, but he was no longer interested in her. He only cared about Harry.

_He doesn't want to be wanted? _

_Maybe he doesn't, when the people who want him to do one thing are just as likely to turn their backs on him next time. Maybe he isn't used to being wanted for who he is, instead of what he can do._

"I never meant," said Daphne.

"I know you didn't," said Harry, which almost made Draco snarl again. "But that's what happened. Excuse me." He brushed past her without touching and without a backward glance, and walked to the table.

Draco followed, both because he wanted to flap his wings and crow at Daphne's dismissal and moving gave him something else to focus on, and because he could more easily lift his wings to shade Harry. Several people in the room had paid attention, after all, to their little scene.

One of them was Tamara Maundy.

_I won't let you hurt him. I won't._


End file.
